Soul Full
by majorbee
Summary: What if things had gone differently in the Mines of Moria, and it had been here that Boromir was badly wounded. How would this affect future events... such as Gandalf's battle with the Balrog?
1. Chapter 1

**Soul Full**

By Carolyn Golledge

MORIA

"They have a cave troll," Boromir reported, calm and certain.

He had battled the things often enough, but usually with soldiers about him, or, if there had been civilians, they had been Men and Women, not Hobbits the size of children. The ancient wood door shattered at the first impact of the troll's fist. Goblins poured in, a dam burst of teeth and yellow eyes and flashing blades. Boromir, Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli took them on, hewing them down as fast as they charged forward.

"Stay back!" Boromir shouted as Merry and Pippin appeared in his line of sight, their swords at the ready. Their training had only begun, they couldn't...

"Sam!" Frodo yelled.

Hacking down two more Goblins, Boromir spared a glance behind, saw Sam, fry pan in hand belting a Goblin over the head. A fry pan!

"I'm getting' the hang o' this!" Sam said, breathless.

Thundering steps, a massive shadow, the troll, towering over the Hobbit. White-faced, Sam froze, staring up at the thing in terror. A lift of one giant foot, and...

A chop with a sword, no matter how well aimed, at best would serve only to bring the thing's entire body down atop the Hobbit. The troll snarled and turned its head as another of Legolas' arrows hit home, chains swinging from its wrists.

Chains!

Boromir grabbed them and quickly looped the heavy metal links about his lightly armored forearm. He heaved, but it wasn't enough. Then, Aragorn was there, adding his weight, grabbing at the chain. Together, they heaved with all they had. Distracted, the troll turned to look at them and Sam scurried clear. The troll turned to attack, its arm lifting, the arm to which the chains were -

Oh, shit!

Lifted from his feet, Boromir was flung hard backward, a whoosh of air about him. A slamming impact on stone. Agonizing pain erupting in his back and chest, all the breath gone from him. Blackness. Somehow, he clung to consciousness, aware that to pass out now was to die. He shook his head, sending sweat and bloodied spit flying, caught a blurred vision of a Goblin charging at him, blade raised. Boromir could not move, his right hand flexing on empty air. Where was his sword, damn it! A familiar thunking sound, Aragorn's knife embedded in the Goblin's head, it grunted and fell.

Aragorn's blue eyes, bright against the shadows, met Boromir's blurred gaze with silent question. How bad...? Can you fight?

Boromir nodded thanks, and answered with action, finding his fallen sword with a groping hand. The Ranger had surely saved his life.

Relief took the dark edge from Aragorn's harried expression, and he nodded swift acceptance then returned to the frenzied battle. So many enemy! Boromir shoved down hard with his free hand to push himself up. Pain, sudden, overwhelming, swamped him, mixing bile and blood in his mouth. He spat, saw scarlet droplets splatter the flagstones, hoped he had simply bitten his tongue, pushed the truth away.

First rolling to all fours, he managed to stagger back to his feet. Two Goblins came at him and instinct took over, compelling his arm to lift and strike again and again, forbid the pain entry to his mind. He side-stepped, clumsy. If Faramir were here he would laugh to see the awkwardness, the wounding rather than killing strikes. Laughed, or wept. Another enemy, another. The cave troll, thankfully, was otherwise occupied, Boromir catching a fleeting impression of Legolas firing arrow after arrow into the thing. It was intent on reaching who? Frodo!

Boromir could not help, could barely stand, barely keep himself alive. He lunged forward, impaled a Goblin on his blade and its falling weight clawed through him, jarring him badly enough that the pain would not be denied. Something gave way deep inside him with a tearing, flooding warmth. The metallic tang of blood filled his mouth, choking him and he bent forward and vomited it up, almost bought down by the agony of the muscle spasm in his gut. But he could breathe again, a little, and took down an unwary enemy who came too close, thinking him finished. His trembling legs held, and he moved forward, trying to get between the wall of enemy and the Hobbits at the rear of the cavernous room. His impossibly heavy right arm thrust and hacked, felling or driving the Goblins from him, their yellow eyes wide with fear.

He vomited more blood, shook his head, desperately trying to see. He heard Sam scream, "No!"

Boromir turned clumsily toward the sound, stumbled, squinted down at the object that had tripped him. His dazed mind tried to make sense of it, and it took a moment to recognize it was his shield. He'd dropped it to grab the chain. He stabbed another enemy, and already stooped over, bent further to pick it up. It was like trying to lift the stone floor, utterly immovable. It weighed more than it could have, surely. No, it hadn't changed, he was weak, failing. He tugged at it again, and the effort dragged him to his knees with a jolt that forced a strangled cry of pain from him. Emboldened, a Goblin came at him and he drew his dirk, threw, and bought it down. More Goblins. He staggered up, his vision going red black a moment then steadying into hazy focus.

Suddenly, the cave troll fell, thudded into the stone floor with a shuddering impact that very nearly took Boromir's feet from under him once more. He blinked sweat from his eyes and peered at it, saw with immense relief that it was dead, arrows jutting everywhere from its head. Now there were only the remnants of frightened Goblins to clean up. He tried to lift his sword and join Gimli who was having at them with a will, avenging his dead cousin.

Something was wrong, ruptured deep inside him, giving way further as the tried again, futilely to wield his sword. He stood there, swallowing blood faster than he could spit it out and weaving like a drunk. He became aware that there was silence but for his friends' ragged, panting breaths and their boots and bare feet shifting the crumbled rock of the rubble-strewn floor.

"Frodo!" Merry and Pippin echoed Sam's cry and a moment later, Aragorn too, gasped the name.

Boromir found it an immense effort just to turn his head to see where they were looking.

No, oh no.

Frodo lay lifeless, sprawled amid the stone pillars, Sam weeping as he went to him, Aragorn crawling toward them, surely badly hurt himself. Boromir desperately wanted to go to them, to help, but found he needed all his meager strength merely to remain upright. Gandalf moved into his line of sight, his shrewd eyes piercing beneath the bushy eyebrows. His attention riveted on Frodo, Boromir was surprised when the old Wizard took time out to give Boromir a startled and worried regard before turning back again to the Ringbearer.

"Frodo!" Sam's cry was a sob of utter despair as he went to his knees and clutched at Frodo's shoulders, cradling him.

Aragorn shoved something big and heavy from atop Frodo, and it rolled down onto the floor with a dull metallic clang. Boromir was aware distantly that his reactions were too slow, his thinking muddled. His gaze settled on the rolling object and his brain struggled to identify it. A pike, a massive pike, big enough to be a troll's weapon. _That_ had felled Frodo? There was no hope, then, that Frodo was only wounded, knocked senseless.

The hard floor slammed into Boromir's knees and he blinked at it, for a moment having the strange sensation that it had come up and hit him, rather than him falling down.

"Frodo!" Aragorn gasped, trying to check the Hobbit for signs of life.

If Aragorn had crawled to him, Boromir could do the same. His chest and stomach hurt badly, but he dragged himself closer. He had to shake his head to clear his vision, then saw Aragorn's battle-gory hands pull open Frodo's coat and shirt. Squinting dizzily, Boromir expected to see a gaping, ragged wound. Instead, he saw a flash of silver.

"Mithril!"

Graying out, Boromir thought he heard Gandalf say something about 'surprises.' All he knew for certain was that there was a collective reaction of relief and joy, and Frodo was sitting up again and talking. The rubble strewn floor suddenly loomed larger in Boromir's sight and he realized he had fallen to his full length, his head only inches off the floor.

"Boromir!"

Pippin's voice. Alarmed.

A moment of blackness.

"Boromir? Steady, steady!"

Aragorn, trying to ease him over onto his back. He struggled to sit up. It hurt to breathe and he knew from experience that being upright helped a little. Aragorn seemed to understand that, helping him up, and someone braced him from behind, supporting him. Legolas….

"No... time!" Boromir managed to gasp out.

His vision settled enough to deliver a glare to Aragorn and Gandalf who were bent over him. They needed to keep Frodo and the other Hobbits alive, not fuss over him. They had not won the battle, just a skirmish against the forerunners. There would be more Goblins and Trolls, hundreds of them….

"Can you carry him?" Aragorn asked Legolas, ignoring Boromir's protest.

"I can," the Elf replied. "But…."

Boromir felt the movement as Legolas indicated he would then be unable to use the lethal archery skill that had saved them from the Troll.

"No!" Boromir was pleased when his word came out loud and clear and very angry. He even managed to shove Aragorn's hands away from an attempt to check him for what was obviously crushed ribs, torn lungs, and ruptured spleen.

"He is right," Gandalf said sadly, thankfully over-riding whatever Aragorn had started to say.

Boromir found a moment to be warmed by the great depth of grief in the old Wizard's words. Boromir allowed himself to sag forward, ready to accept the oncoming rush of darkness, of probable death. There was no fear or sorrow, just overwhelming frustration. He had not expected to be taken out of the Quest so soon…. They had so much more to do, so much further to go, needed every –

"Stand back, keep clear of him!" Gandalf urged sternly over Gimli's warning of, "Hurry!"

The enemy would not leave much more time for them to escape this death trap. Boromir was glad of the Wizard and Dwarf's wisdom. They were keeping the Hobbits back, forcing them onward.

"You can save him?" Merry asked, his voice choked with tears.

A heavy sigh brushed Boromir's sweaty hair, and gnarled but warm and gentle hands suddenly clasped his head.

"Save, no," Gandalf admitted sadly. "Not here. But, I can give strength sufficient to keep him on his feet. Aragorn, Elrond taught you how to-?"

"Form a Healer's Link, slow the bleeding, yes!" Aragorn replied, the eagerness and renewed hope in his voice as moving as had been Gandalf's grief.

"Leave it!" Boromir tried to snarl, but it came out a faint whisper.

"Do you want to see your city again?" Gimli barked so fiercely that it brought Boromir to fuller consciousness. "Be still now, Laddie. Let them help."

Boromir no longer had the strength to argue. It was pointless. He hoped it – whatever it was, exactly – would take no more than a moment, then the fools could return to matters of duty.

"Please?" Pippin begged, and that hit far harder.

An image of the small boy Faramir came to him, asking the same one word question. Please? Gandalf, admittedly allowed in far too late, had been as helpless to save Finduilas as now he was to save Boromir. Faramir... It hurt to think of him alone, Denethor was no father to him. Garad would be there, though, and Ciran and Damrod, he remembered with relief.

"Let us in, Boromir," Gandalf said quietly. "This won't work otherwise."

'_Let us in!' _Boromir thought hazily. What did that mean?

"Stop guarding your mind," Aragorn explained. "Relax. Let us help. Relax."

Unable to resist a tone Boromir had heard Aragorn use to urge an exhausted and frozen Bill up the mountain, Boromir obeyed.

Warmth. Peace unlike any he had known. Aragorn standing beside him, arrayed in stars, Gandalf ablaze in radiant white. Strength began returning to Boromir's limbs.

A loud gasp, as of someone taking a first breath after near drowning. Himself, breathing again. It brought pain, terrible pain, clawing at him, but not so badly that he couldn't get any air at all.

_Well done!_ Aragorn said with evident relief, but speaking to Gandalf or to him Boromir was not sure. The words echoed, as if coming from inside his head rather than heard externally. That sensation dizzied him further as he was carefully hauled back to his feet.

He blinked sweat from his eyes and saw Legolas propping him on one side, Aragorn the other. Perforce, each had taken an arm about their shoulders, though they must know it hurt his crushed chest to be so strung up.

"I can manage," he said, pleased his words were no longer garbled by so much blood. "You need to – "

"You might need this, Lad," Gimli said and gave a loud sniff. Had he been weeping? Boromir felt the Dwarf slide his sword back into its scabbard. That's right, he'd dropped it when he passed out... His shield would have to be abandoned.

"I'll carry this for you a ways," Gimli continued, and Boromir realized the Dwarf had slung the massive shield over his back, bigger than he himself. Boromir was glad even though he knew it would hinder the Dwarf in a fight. The shield carried a potent link to all those Boromir loved.

Merry collected the still burning torch fallen during the battle and held it high to light their way. Had Gandalf's efforts at Healing left him unable to produce that remarkable guiding light from his staff?

"I can walk," Boromir repeated in the hoarse whisper that had become his voice.

They ignored him, moving as quickly as possible, all but carrying him out and away from Balin's Tomb, through the shattered doors, onward into a vast hall full of towering pillars.

DURIN'S HALL

_"The Gap of Rohan! We must take the West Road!" Boromir called._

_ "The Gap of Rohan takes us too close to Isengard!" Aragorn refused._

Aragorn's refusal to heed Boromir's advice nagged, keeping time with every laboring step, all the sharper for the weight of the mortally wounded Gondorian he and Legolas carried between them. Astonishingly, Boromir was still conscious and made feeble attempts to get his feet under himself, each ending with a strangled gasp of agony. Less blood spilled over his parted lips now, but the Healer's Link would hold only another few minutes. Neither he nor Gandalf could afford to continue to feed it, needing all their remaining strength for the battle.

It came sooner than he had expected, much sooner than he had hoped. A familiar dreadful scuttling, rattling like dry leaves over stone. Aragorn had heard it before. Goblins, thousands of them, closing from every direction, even coming down from the high vaulted beams of stone spanning the hall.

Boromir was not the only one as good as dead.

There was no hope they could fight so many, even had none of their group been wounded. Aragorn and Legolas backed toward the wall, carrying Boromir as best they could into a totally inadequate protective circle. As gently as possible, they sat him down, the wall supporting him when his legs would not hold him. Boromir cast a despairing look at Aragorn as he realized he hadn't the strength to draw his sword. Aragorn drew it for him, putting it into his hand.

Gimli, who had somehow lugged the heavy round shield this far, stood it against Boromir's left side. Merry and Pippin guarded his flanks, blades at the ready as he had taught them. Sam moved to stand guard protectively close to Frodo. All four Hobbits were ready to fight.

"Can you drive them off?" Aragorn asked Gandalf, remembering well the fireworks the Wizard could produce. Even had the Healing drained him, he might managed that much. The light would blind the creatures at least, and perhaps something more lethal could –

Suddenly, squealing in terror, their enemy was retreating, scurrying away even faster than they had come. In moments, it was as if there had never been a single Goblin present. The Hobbits exhaled in relief and lowered their swords. Not so the seasoned warriors of their group. Whatever had terrified thousands of Goblins into fleeing from fresh meat would present the Fellowship with a still greater challenge.

A thundering, booming roar came from behind them and red light drowned the fitful dark of their single flickering torch.

Turning toward the sound, Aragorn saw light like a great fire, casting red gold shadows high on the walls of a corridor behind them. Whatever approached, it was huge, and burning.

"What is it?" Merry asked.

"A demon of the Elder Days. A Balrog," Gandalf answered bleakly, sounding more defeated than Aragorn had ever heard him.

Aragorn shivered. Gandalf had seen his death at the hands of a Balrog….

"Your weapons will not avail you!" The Wizard snarled in abrupt warning. "Run!"

A Balrog! Aragorn had heard the rumors of the ancient evil uncovered by the Dwarves as they had dug ever deeper into Moria's depths. Trading glances with Legolas, the two moved to lift Boromir urgently, but carefully, back to his feet. The other Man shook his head, trying feebly to push them away. He spat a gout of red-black blood and a steady thin stream of it followed, unstoppable.

Gandalf was unable to maintain his Healing Link, all his energies needed to confront the Balrog. But that confrontation would not be here.

"Run!" Gandalf repeated, and followed his own advice, leading the way.

Reclaiming Boromir's sword and seeing it safely back in its scabbard, Aragorn kept hold as best he could to Boromir's spirit as well as to the arm he hauled back up tight over his shoulders. He continued to feed what little Light he could to the other Man, but knew Boromir was dying. Short of great magic, there was no hope of repairing so massive an internal injury. Aragorn knew Boromir wanted them to leave him, but he could not, even for the sake of a marginally greater chance of the Quest of the Ring surviving.

Glancing back, Aragorn saw the walking mountain of molten rock and flame, lumbering down upon them. One booming step after another shuddered through the stone flagstones beneath Aragorn's running feet. The gathering heat was incredible, ominous in what had moments before been chill surrounds.

"Hurry!" Gimli urged, herding the panting Hobbits and helping Sam steady Frodo just ahead of Aragorn.

Gandalf waved them to him urgently, and Aragorn saw with relief that he had found the Bridge of Khazadum. If they could only make it safely across and leave Gandalf's magic to destroy it behind them... Then, maybe there might yet be hope for Boromir, hope for them all….

When Boromir could speak at all over the choking blood that stained his bearded chin, he snarled at Aragorn to leave him. And, again, he was right.

Heat seared the air, burning Aragorn's mouth and lungs as he strained for breath, to manage one more step beneath the big Gondorian's weight. The Balrog was much closer. Its next jolting step tore Boromir from his grasp as Aragorn too, stumbled and almost fell. The sudden, unbalancing weight of both Men even caused Legolas to trip a little, too. But, steadying themselves, they straightened once more and staggering onward, reached the climb out onto the stone bridge. Courageously, Boromir tried to help them, tried to walk, hauling himself up as Aragorn fought to maintain a grip on the Man's leather encased forearm.

The White Tree of Gondor, etched so painstakingly there by some unknown artisan of Minas Tirith, glowed in the red light as if aflame. Glowed accusingly at her King, who refused to return home, refused to try to save her, fearing the weakness of his blood, while Boromir, her protector, her Champion, like her, stood bleeding to death, fighting to the last. A living, dying proof of the strength, and honor, of Men.

Legolas did not sweat, but Aragorn's hands were slipping inside his leather gloves. The Elf flicked him an unnecessarily warning glance. If they could not move faster, the Balrog would be on them in moments. Legolas looked up and back at the quiver and bow slung over his other shoulder.

Shockingly, Aragorn suddenly felt something like hysterical laughter twitching at his lips... Arrows? Against a foe older than the very mountain that surrounded them and welded by a magic long gone from Arda's molten heart?

Despairing, Legolas read Aragorn's blunt but truthful assessment. The Elf's grieving regard returned to the blood-splattered, white-faced Boromir. The Gondorian strained and fought, winning a victory with every breath. Aragorn was guiltily glad he could not hear that dreadful agonized battle over the Balrog's thunderous, roaring presence.

Ahead, having reached the middle of the bridge, Gandalf suddenly stopped and turned to look back at them. His expression alarmingly calm, his bearded face bathed in a wash of red, he lifted his head to regard the towering Balrog. Frodo, stumbling to a halt amid the cluster of his small friends, said something to the Wizard. Gandalf smiled and shook his head. Then, he glared impatiently toward the group who had paused, wondering. Sam, Pippin, and Merry huddled with Gimli who tried unsuccessfully to urge them on. It was plain the Balrog was winning this race.

"Aragorn!" Gandalf barked loud enough that he could be plainly heard over the terrible roar of the Balrog's furnace of a mouth. "Lead them on!"

Death had stepped onto the stage.

Aragorn's heart begged him to shout defiance, begged him to tell Gandalf he could not die, begged him to allow them all to stand and fight together. They had done it so many times before on their Quest, survived the mountain, survived the wolves who came in the night of their exhaustion, survived the troll, the Goblins...

Death leered at him, willingly, hungrily, happy to devour more victims.

Aragorn nodded and in a few stumbling strides, doing his best not to jolt Boromir about, he caught up to the group.

"Oh, no," Merry said softly, looking up at Boromir. Pippin gave a strangled sob of utter despair.

"Och, Laddie..." Gimli exhaled grimly.

Boromir's red tunic was as crimson with blood where it showed above his leather surcote, his bearded chin drenched in heavy dark red. His eyes were glazed, unfocused, he was literally out on his feet, but unwilling to quit the fight.

Tears stung Aragorn's eyes. He would lose the Wizard who had been as a father to him, and the too-young Man who had so recently become like a brother.

Gandalf met Aragorn's gaze and smiled, gently, saying farewell.

"Leave him with me," he said. "I will keep him safe."

"Leave him – !" Merry demanded. "But – "

"Just until you can get the others across," Gandalf added for the Hobbit's sake.

He reached to take Boromir and Aragorn instinctively resisted, drawing a low groan as the wounded Man was pulled between them.

Boromir's knees gave way and he crumpled, assisting Gandalf's efforts to remove him from Aragorn's care at last. Gandalf took hold of the Gondorian's upper arm with his free hand and settled Boromir's back against his knees. Only then did Aragorn realize the Wizard no longer held his sword at the ready. It was to be a battle of magic, then. But of course it would be, no sword could avail against so mighty a foe, not even Glamdring.

Gandalf did not meet Aragorn's gaze again, his attention locked on the rapidly approaching Balrog. The depths of the Wizard's eyes reflected ugly fire and were filled with equally fierce challenge. He would hold the bridge – alone but for a dying Boromir. If he succeeded...

But Aragorn knew as well as Gandalf why the Wizard so uncharacteristically feared this place. Death was icy all about them, despite the towering heat roaring closer, closer...

"Legolas!" Gandalf snapped. "Get them out of here! Go!"

Aragorn felt the Elf brush lightly against him and leap forward to help Gimli shepherd the Hobbits, who with stoic obstinacy, seemed set to refuse escape and stay to guard their friends. Grim and silent, Gimli placed Boromir's shield carefully on the ground close by the Man, as one would array a fallen Warrior for memorial.

Only then did Aragorn realize he still had a hand clasping Boromir's other arm, was bent forward over him. The Healer's Link between them was still so strong, he could almost read the other Man's mind. Then, with surprising force, Boromir's elbow slammed into Aragorn's knee. That effort took the last of Boromir's breath. Aragorn heard the Gondorian's curse through their Link rather than with his ears.

Spitting as much blood as the one word "Go!" Boromir managed to lift his head and jerk it behind him to add emphasis.

The Balrog closed another mighty, burning step and the rocky ground heaved so violently that it brought an already off balance Aragorn to his knees. Which left his eyes and mind, despairing and desperate, locked with Boromir's.

Images came to him, images that tormented Boromir. A younger Man, a Ranger of Gondor, with the same russet brown hair, the same stubborn jaw, but blue eyes, not green. Faramir. The White city, its magnificent walls in ruins, its towers toppling, its homes and streets aflame, its people's bodies littering the streets. Gondorian soldiers, at the last gate, the Seventh level, fighting desperately only to be torn apart by cave trolls or taken by Nazgl...

'_The world of Men will fall_….' Aragorn heard Boromir's thought, '_And all will come to darkness. And my city to ruin!'_

Boromir's fingers closed in a surprisingly powerful vice about Aragorn's wrist, his intent green eyes begging, pleading, commanding, needing help, from ... his King?

Tear's blurred Aragorn's sight as he nodded sharp acceptance, all the weight of doubt falling away from him as dead leaves fall at last from a tree preparing to renew itself.

This was right, this was what he had been born for. The sure knowledge flooded through him, carrying with it the essence of the Link that lent him Boromir's confident leadership. And approval.

"My King!" Boromir gasped aloud, and Aragorn knew they were the last words he would say in this life.

Boromir smiled and released his hold, his eyes closing with exhaustion as he sagged down to the ground, leaving Gandalf free to fight, to defend the bridge.

"I will come back for you," Aragorn promised, hoping it would be true.

He spared one last glance for Gandalf who was turned away, toward the Balrog. Then, he ran, leaping around the two, to rejoin the remaining Fellowship, where Legolas and Gimli were busy defending against the Goblins awaiting any that might escape the Balrog.

Frodo, his blue eyes huge and bright with tears in his white face, stood frozen, deaf to all pleas to run, transfixed by the sight as his dear friend turned to confront death. Merry, Pippin, Sam, fell prey to the same emotion as they too, realized what Gandalf was about to do.

"No…." Legolas' whisper of loss was swallowed up in the roar and stamp of monstrous feet and a giant mouth bellowing liquid fire.

"You shall not pass!"

Gandalf's command rang as pure and clear as the white light that sprang to his aid, bursting upward as he brought his staff down hard. It impacted with the rock as if to cleave all Arda in two. Rock that had stood Age beyond Age shattered as if made glass, obeying a countering righteous wrath even more ancient. A blinding halo of purest white erased sight of Wizard and Man, engulfing the red-black fury of the Balrog and sending it toppling into the abyss.

The light winked out, and Aragorn, his face tight with a grin of victory, could see them plainly again. Unbelievably, Boromir had propped himself up and drawn his dirk, the weight of his sword far beyond him. He guarded as Gandalf watched, craning forward to be sure of their enemy's demise.

"They did it!" Merry and Pippin cried.

Aragorn hurriedly snatched at them, holding them as they set to run back out onto the dangerously unsteady, hanging span of broken bridge.

"Legolas and I will go – " he began, the words cut short by the look of horrified shock on their faces.

Pivoting, he caught sight of Gandalf, bent to aid Boromir. Unseen, a fiery whip coiled upward from the abyss and wrapped about the Wizard's leg. Gandalf fell, snatching at the edge of the bridge and hanging there above an endless fall only by his slipping fingertips.

Aragorn took a step to go back, but was blocked as Frodo moved around, ready to get there first. Aragorn gathered him up, and held him fast despite his struggles.

Gandalf's eyes shone wide not with fear, but anger, impatience.

"Fly! You fools!" he snapped in the silence.

Then, with a strength he could not possess, Boromir locked one hand tight about the Wizard's wrist.

"No," Gandalf said quiet and stern, as if to a child.

"Yes," Boromir coughed and tried to pull him up.

Aragorn had felt the defiant word through the Link, rather than heard it. If he could just feed the other Man more strength until...

Holding Frodo hard to him, Aragorn concentrated. Focusing all his Healer's energies on the still present Link, he Sent all the Life Light he could spare directly to Boromir, doubling, trebling, quadrupling, the power of their Bond. Boromir shuddered as the energy entered him, but it was too little too late. He was spent, had no hope of lifting Gandalf, but he would not let go.

Without a sound, together, Boromir and Gandalf fell, disappeared, swallowed up by Balrog and chasm as if they had never been.

Death sang, reeking satisfaction.

A/N … this is chapter one…. Don't worry, Boromir will be back in this story! …. Carolyn


	2. Chapter 2 The Love of a Brother

A Farmstead on the North Western Borders of Gondor.

"Faramir!"

Garad bent to his friend and Captain, intensely worried. In the middle of talking with the senior man of the farmstead, Faramir had suddenly gone as white as snow, his blue eyes without focus. Then he had whispered a single word, easily recognizable as his brother's name, and slowly folded to his knees.

"What's wrong with him?" the gnarled old man asked.

Garad ignored the question, intent only on Faramir. "Boromir?" he prompted, not sure he wanted to hear the answer.

Faramir's head slowly lifted, his eyes returning to focus. The dull defeat that misted his gaze echoed hollowly in his voice. "Dead."

Garad suddenly needed to sit down, fumbled for a chair, found none, and thudded backside first into the hard stone floor. "No." The word was drawn from him without volition, he had no strength to speak, no strength to go on. Yet he must rally, for Faramir, for all of them.

"Was he – did you see –" he questioned, hunting clumsily for hope, for more information, for something to fan the flicker of light he saw growing in his friend's eyes.

"Moria. A monster of fire and rock."

Garad groaned and covered his eyes.

"But –" Faramir said, sounding like a man surfacing from a great cold depth.

"But?" Garad lifted his head.

"He's still…. Here. I can feel him."

Garad dared to breathe again. "Then, he's not dead?"

"I… don't know." Faramir frowned and gave it lengthy consideration both of them continuing to ignore a very curious onlooker. "He's not alive."

That couldn't be good. "But, there's still a chance?" Garad prompted.

Faramir's frown deepened and a long, harrowing silence lengthened before he again looked up, a faint smile lighting his eyes. "There's a chance. If I find him, and find him soon."

"We will," Garad said surely, his confidence born of that smile. "We go now. We're finished here. Ciran and Damrod can take word back…."

"Garad…" Faramir growled with familiar warning. "No."

Apparently unable to stand the suspense a moment longer, the farmer interrupted anxiously, asking, "The Lord Boromir is lost?"

Distracted, Faramir nodded sharp answer.

The farmer gasped a shocked sudden inhalation and all the color drained from his face. Garad grabbed at the fellow's arm and hurriedly helped him to sit on one of the hay bale's they had used earlier as part of a defensive wall.

Garad and Faramir exchanged swift glances. Such news could destroy what little morale these people had remaining to them and would grow worse in the relay between farmsteads.

Faramir lay a warm, steadying hand to the farmer's thin shoulder despite his own shock and added in quick reassurance, "He will be found, and he will live."

The old man lifted his head to meet Faramir's eyes to measure the truth of the statement, forcing Faramir to add, "He will live, if I find him fast."

"Then you must take my horses, My Lord."

Garad blinked surprise. Those horses, two stallions and two mares, were from Rohan and worth a small fortune, and a greater fortune now. Faramir's Square had managed to save them, knowing they had been the raiders' primary objective. But in placing all their efforts in protecting the horses, they had been unable to save the homestead and the crops and gardens so carefully cultivated around it.

Misinterpreting Faramir's hesitation, the farmer's wife, stepping forward, added proudly, "They are of Rohan's best bloodstock, My Lord. My wife's Uncle gave them to her on her wedding day, and he is cousin of a cousin to the Lord Eomer, and -."

Their pride and eagerness to give over all they had, at last brought a soft smile to Faramir's tense face.

"I do not doubt they are fine animals, Mearal, Karina, but they are all you have left to you now. They are your foundation stock."

Mearal straightened, standing tall as he turned back toward his burning homestead.

"My family are unharmed," he said sternly, referring to his two sons, their wives and a several children, including a babe in arms. It had been difficult to get them all together in time to defend the place, the sons determined bringing the horses in from grazing and the women working in the garden and the homestead. "

We will eat together this night, as we always do," Karina continued for her husband, "though it will be here in the barn. We will sleep warmly enough, and we will forever give thanks to the four brave Rangers of Gondor who made that possible."

"I only wish we could have saved your homestead for you as well," Garad mumbled apologetically.

True, there had been only the four warriors against a raiding force of at least twenty, but damn it, he and Ciran had almost made it, almost managed to keep the bastards away from the house while defending the barn, at the same time. Then, the raiders had let loose with burning arrows and it had been all they could do to save the terrified horses and Mearal's family, evacuated there on Faramir's orders when he had first summed up the battleground.

"You saved my family, Lad," Mearal answered, "and you saved the horses that I pray to all the Valar will save the Lord Boromir."

"Amen," Garad muttered fervently.

"You and your brother, both, must return to us, My Lord," Karina put in, "For you _are _Gondor."

Faramir nodded but did not smile as he usually did at the familiar saying. "Gondor is my brother's heart," he agreed with quiet intensity, and suddenly, Garad wanted to weep.

If Boromir was dead, yet not dead, had he become a wraith, had Sauron taken him? A fate worse than death.

As if reading his mind, Faramir flashed him a burning look and snapped, "He can be saved!"

"Take the horses," Helarth, one of the sons, urged.

"And this," a quieter, more shy voice added.

Turning about, Karina collected the bundle her daughter held out to her. Then, Karina offered it solemnly to Faramir. Faramir lifted a corner of the linen and revealed bread, apples, cheese and dried meat.

"This is all the food you have," Faramir said.

"Then, it is all the food Gondor has," Karina said firmly. "Take it, and Gondor lives."

"You have several days journey ahead of you," Faramir protested.

Karina only snorted. "And you don't know how far you must go, My Lord," she insisted, folding the material back over the bread, "Nor to what end. Please, take this, as you carry our hope."

Outside, finished with saddling two of the four horses, Garad coughed. The smoke from the smoldering ruin of the farmstead was thicker, stinging his eyes as he watched Faramir steady a nervous mount.

"A third archer could make all the difference to those people surviving to reach the Great River, Garad, you know it as well as I do," Faramir spoke evenly, then continued soothing and hushing the frightened mare.

"I go with you," Garad repeated, knowing beyond a doubt where his duty lay. Still, he could not quite bring himself to look back toward the family clustered at the barn door. Two of the children were little more than toddlers, one an infant at the breast. Curse Denethor and his latest restrictions on Ranger numbers! Ever since Boromir had been sent to Rivendell, their protector in Minas Tirith was gone. Now they were spread so thin they had no hope of guarding the scattered homesteaders, let alone attend more urgent priorities. Such as bringing Boromir back alive. It would have been better if all four of them could have gone. But Ciran and Damrod would have their hands full shephering these people to safety at Cair Andros.

"I go where my orders take me," Garad added as Faramir turned to him, jaw set, ready to pull the Commander routine on him.

That diffused Faramir's stern expression just as Garad had expected. Sighing heavily, Faramir could not meet his eyes, but moved away from the jittery horse to stand running a hand through his dirty hair. A gesture so like Boromir...

"Garad..." Faramir said wearily. "You know Boromir never meant that as an order."

"Fine. I'm only going with you to save myself, y'know. He'd tear me apart with his bare hands if I didn't."

Faramir snorted, faintly amused. "Boromir is a pushover and you know it."

"Right," Garad said and vaulted easily up to his own horse who seemed of calmer temperament than Faramir's. "And that's how he got into the mess we're about to go get him out of Oh My Captain – he gave in to his father. Again."

"No, he didn't!" Faramir began the argument they'd had many times since Boromir had left for the mysterious Imladris, taken there Faramir insisted, by a shared dream.

Garad only smiled to himself, watching as Faramir mounted easily despite the side stepping mare. He had not protested that Garad was already in the saddle and ready to ride out with him. They'd said their goodbyes to Ciran and Damrod inside the barn, and they, as ever, did not stand outside and wave farewell. It was a Ranger superstition never to watch another's departure into deadly danger.


	3. Chapter 3 The Dimrill Dale

Chapter Three - The Dimrill Dale.

Exiting Moria at last, Boromir flinched, finding the sunshine too bright, the air too clean, the view of rolling rocky hills and blue sky too vast, too beautiful. The world could not be like this when Gandalf was dead, fallen into the abyss.

That one memory was burned vivid and harsh into his mind, he could see only it, remember only that. He thought he had tried to save the Wizard, but couldn't be sure. He'd hit his head when he'd tangled with the cave troll. Everything beyond that moment was a blur edged by darkness.

Now, he felt no pain, only terrible weariness and the aches of strained muscles and bruised flesh. He was glad the injury had been minor and his head clear again, for he'd need all his strength to aid the grieving Fellowship.

He heard a gasp then a broken sobbing, and over it, Gimli cursed in a fluent stream, promising murder and revenge on every Goblin left in Moria.

"Let me go, Elf!" Gimli growled, panting as he struggled in what must be an iron grip.

"No," Legolas said calmly, gently. "I will not lose you, too, my friend."

Boromir wanted to see them, wanted to find Merry and Pippin, but for some reason could not, and remained fixed on the view ahead down into the valley.

"Legolas! Gimli!" Aragorn snapped, startlingly close, "Get them up! We must keep moving!"

Suddenly, Boromir's perspective altered, and he saw who it was who wept so openly, so completely broken. Pippin. Of course he would blame himself. Merry held him tight, rocking him gently, as he himself also wept. Boromir wanted to weep with them, for them, as well as for Gandalf. Suddenly, he was angry with Aragorn's command even though he knew the Ranger was right.

_"For pity's sake!"_ Boromir begged. _"Give them a moment!"_

The body beneath him jolted back as if punched, and lost its footing, nearly fell.

"Aragorn?" Legolas called, "Are you well? Were you wounded?"

"Boromir?" Aragorn whispered.

Then, Aragorn wept, and oddly Boromir felt the desperate strangled breaths, the effort at hiding tangible grief as if it were his own. The next sensation was abrupt and painful, that of thinly clad knees slamming into stone. Had he fallen? He tried to shake his head, but couldn't seem to manage it. Was he concussed, after all? He saw Gimli leave off his struggling and cursing, and, with Legolas at his side, hurry toward him.

Boromir's vision of them was… odd… as if he was looking up at them from inside a well. He could feel the hard rock and small sharp stones beneath his knees, feel himself weeping. But he wasn't weeping, he was trying to go to Merry and Pippin's aid, and too, he realized with sudden alarm, where were Frodo and Sam?

The Elf bent over him and Boromir felt Legolas' arm, warm and solid, wrap about his shoulders. Those shoulders seemed different somehow, not so broad, but strong for all their wiriness.

"Boromir!" Aragorn repeated and groaned as if in great pain. "Gandalf! It cannot be!"

Legolas' face swam into view, the vision misted by tears.

"I heard him," Aragorn said brokenly, "as if he still stood at my side. Begging me to allow his Little Ones a moment's rest."

"_As if…! What do you mean as if?"_ Boromir growled, suddenly worried that the other Man, too, had taken a knock to the head in the battle. _"Aragorn, I'm right here. Can't you see me? Legolas, help me."_

"Boromir!" Aragorn moaned. "I hear him still..."

"You did sever your Healer's Link to him, didn't you?" Legolas demanded urgently, tightening his grip on the Ranger's shoulders. Why could Boromir feel that reassuring, solid touch, rather then see it?

"There was no time!" Aragorn snapped. With a tearing effort Boromir felt as if his own, the other Man lurched to his feet, the muscles of back and legs complaining.

Thankfully, Boromir's vision cleared and he could see Frodo standing alone at the edge of the clearing. Frodo turned toward them, his blue eyes dull, tears tracking his dirty face. He would blame himself, too.

"We must keep moving," Aragorn repeated. "By nightfall, these hills will be crawling with Orcs."

"First we drink," Legolas insisted. "And you tell me what the Link is doing to you!"

"Miruvor?" Aragorn asked, sounding dazed and uncertain.

Whatever Legolas meant by 'the Healing Link', it was something Aragorn did not want to confront right now.

"No," Legolas answered distractedly, and Boromir could hear the sounds as the Elf found and uncapped the small bottle he carried cushioned in a pocket inside his tunic. "A parting gift from my father."

Boromir, his vision swinging about dizzyingly, suddenly saw the Elf held a small flask in his hands, hands that seemed unnaturally big as he held it out for Boromir to take.

_ "Aragorn, first,"_ Boromir refused, wanting to run his hands through his hair in pure frustration, but his arms didn't seem to want to obey him.

"_I'll get Merry and Pippin,_" Boromir said. He tried to turn to go to them, but nothing happened.

The rim of the liquor flask met 'his' lips. He swallowed without volition and wondrous warmth and strength flooded into 'his' veins, banishing fatigue and pain. Boromir saw and felt Aragorn's hand wipe at 'his' mouth, the other grasping the flask, and handing it back to Legolas.

It couldn't be…Boromir thought, suddenly completely confused, and afraid. Where was he? Why couldn't he move?

Desperately, he commanded his body to obey, to move toward Merry and Pippin. He succeeded, partially, 'his' head turning enough to see that Pippin had stopped weeping. The two Hobbits were now standing, staring, frowning concern at where Aragorn stood. For some strange reason, Boromir realized with a jangle of fear, he could not see the other Man himself.

"You can hear Boromir?" Pippin said, so softly, so yearningly that it tore through Boromir like a knife. "I wish he was here." The last word broke to a sob, and Merry hugged his cousin close.

"_I __am__ here!_" Boromir insisted in utter frustration. _"Can't anyone see me? Am I suddenly invisible?"_

"Boromir?" Aragorn said again, his tone completely different, sounding anxious but focused, rather than grief-stricken and shocked. "Can you hear me?"

"_Of course I can hear you!"_ Boromir said, utterly exasperated. _"I'm standing right here!"_

"Oh, Valar," Aragorn breathed, and slowly, despite Legolas' supporting arm, sank once more to his knees. An action Boromir plainly felt as his own.

"What have I done?" Aragorn said, sadness and horror full in his tone.

Suddenly, Boromir felt cold through to the marrow, making him shiver. Or rather, another body was shivering ... Aragorn's? How could Boromir be feeling whatever Aragorn felt? Boromir tried to move 'his' right arm, needing desperately to see it, and to see the White Tree etched into the leather of his vambrace.

Again, there was no response. His body, or rather, the body about him, felt lighter, strange, the weight of the shield no longer at his back. But, wait, that was right, Boromir had been unable to carry it after the fight with the cave troll. The monstrous creature had picked him up and thrown him like….

Boromir suddenly and clearly remembered what had come next. He'd been so badly wounded, the metallic taste of blood thick in his mouth. So why was there no blood in his mouth now? Where was the agony that had robbed him of breath and taken his legs from beneath him?

A flashing image came to him…. Gandalf's blue eyes piercing right through him, begging him to let go. Boromir's fingers had clung tight to the old Wizard's wrist. Then Gandalf''s weight had begun to pull Boromir toward the chasm, the rock floor hurting him badly as it dug into Boromir's shattered body.

Spinning, falling, ever downward, dragged faster and faster by a monster made of fire, burning red and black, its bright white evil eyes flaring hatred from below. The Balrog! Bathed in dazzling white light, Gandalf battled the thing even as they fell, his sword tiny by comparison to the enemy, but drawing great flashing eruptions of fire nonetheless.

"_I will keep him safe." _Boromir shared Gandalf's memory of the promise made to Aragorn.

Then, something... Something like a deep sleep descended abruptly about Boromir, taking away pain, and lulling him to comfortable, warm darkness. After that, he recalled nothing more until now, escaping Moria into sunshine at last.

But he couldn't be here. He had fallen with Gandalf and the Balrog!

Was he dead, too!He hadn't let go.

No more than had Aragorn released his Healer's Link. Boromir had heard stories of such things, of spirits trapped on the wrong side. He had warned Faramir of Healers driven mad by those they'd held too close, for too long.

"_I'm dead,"_ Boromir said flatly, the words echoing about him.

The body that was not his responded with the force of his shock.

"Drink!" Legolas insisted and Boromir felt the flask press again to Aragorn's lips, felt the wonderful warmth, the immediate strength as the elixir slid down Aragorn's throat and rapidly spread from stomach to limbs. The body stopped shaking as more warmth was added, small cloaks wrapped carefully about Aragorn's shoulders.

"You'll be all right," Pippin said. "Won't he, Merry?"

"Of course he will," Merry said with false cheer. "He chased off all those Black Riders that night when Frodo was wounded."

Boromir, seeing through Aragorn's eyes, watched Pippin turn toward the Ringbearer. Frodo came closer, Sam as ever at his side.

_You lose!_ The Ring's insidious, foul voice spoke clearly in Boromir's mind. _You're dead and My Master will soon claim you! The Tenth Ring Wraith!"_

"Leave him be!" Frodo snapped, echoing the same words from Aragorn's mouth. The two stared at one another.

"The Ring can sense him, too?" Aragorn asked.

Frodo nodded. "He's still here. I can feel him, through It."

"I thought I heard him speak to me," Aragorn said, "I know I heard the Ring. Does it... Did it always threaten him so?"

"Yes," Frodo said wearily, coming to sit at Aragorn's side. "All the time. It kept at him, over and over. I don't know how he handed the thing back to me in the snow."

"The Tenth Ring Wraith?" Aragorn asked, horror rippling through him.

"_No, it never said that before_," Boromir told him. _"That's a new one. But I wasn't dead before."_

"You're really here," Aragorn said, wonder chasing away the horror then reshaping it into dread. "But you should be …"

Boromir could well hear the unspoken words, _"….on your way to Mandos."_

Boromir was compelled to add, _"If he would have me."_

He felt Aragorn shake his head. "He would welcome you as a prince and champion of Gondor should be welcomed."

"_But the Ring…."_ Boromir worried._ "Maybe I'm still here because -"_

"No." Aragorn cut off that thought before it could take root. "There is nothing of the Ring about your presence."

"He thinks the Ring trapped him here?" Frodo asked, then as Aragorn replied with a nod, Frodo squeezed Aragorn's arm. "Tell him I am certain It had nothing to do with this."

"Frodo says to tell you -" Aragorn began.

"_I hear him,"_ Boromir interrupted. _"Tell him, I hear him."_

"He says to tell you that he hears you," Aragorn relayed.

"Boromir can hear us?" Gimli demanded, skepticism ringing in his voice. "What are you talking about? Have you all gone mad?"

_*I am glad that I might yet speak with you, my friend*,_ Legolas suddenly spoke in Boromir's mind.

_You have seen us speak silently like this many times, _Aragorn put in silently over Boromir's surprise. _Now that you can hear us converse, too, perhaps it will not make you so angry. _Then, to Legolas and Boromir both, Aragorn asked, _What do we do now?_

_He should journey on, as do all mortal dead, to the Halls of Mandos,_ Legolas answered_._

_Plainly, I have not! _Boromir snapped, _Nor will I until…_

_Until? _Legolas challenged.

_Gondor's victory is secured. _ Boromir didn't know where the answer came from, or how he knew it, but he knew it was true.

_Perhaps we should speak aloud, _Legolas suggested. _The others fear for our sanity._

"Oh, yes," Aragorn agreed, immediately obeying. "But, we must explain as we run. We cannot remain here."

"_Run?"_ Boromir exclaimed. _"Aragorn, have you looked at them? They cannot run!"_

"Then we carry them. But we must run."

"None of us goes one step until you prove you have not left your sense in the Mines!" Gimli growled. "You cannot be talking with Boromir!"

"Yet, we are," Legolas told him. "Boromir's shade remains with us."

Boromir saw through Aragorn's vision as the Elf opened his eyes, leaving a light trance, his fair brows drawn down in worry. "His soul is bound with Aragorn's. The Healer's Link was not broken. Boromir and Aragorn now share the one body."

The reaction was profound and telling. The only sound that came to Boromir-Aragorn's ears was the whisper of the wind through the mountains and the scraping and shuffling of hairy feet or boots over broken stone as everyone stood trying to accept this new development.

It was, typically, Gimli who broke the shock, and as typically, with a grim chuckle.

"Best keep your secrets well buried then, Lad!" he told Aragorn. The Dwarf came closer and reached up to slap the Ranger on the back. "And as for you, Boromir, I'm..."

He failed to keep a light tone, his voice wavering in a way that touched Boromir warmly as the Dwarf finished, "I'm glad we still have your company, no matter the means."

"Me, too!" Merry exclaimed.

"But..." Pippin said, broken, lost.

"But what?" his cousin prompted.

"But Boromir doesn't have his body any more, so..."

"So," Legolas concluded when the Hobbit could not, "he must return to Mandos, eventually."

Boromir snorted, making Aragorn flinch, a little.

"_Just say it, damn it!"_ Boromir exclaimed, frustrated and not wanting to think what that really meant for him any more than did Pippin. _"I'm still just as dead!"_

Frodo exchanged a look with Aragorn that begged to know which of them would relay the words.

Aragorn sighed, "He says you're right, Pippin, he's still just as dead."

Pippin gulped and turned away, his shoulders bunching. Merry slung his arm around him and pulled him close.

"_If I'm dead,"_ Boromir continued, trying to fathom it, _"but not dead. There must be a reason I'm still here other than just the Healer's Link. Maybe... maybe..."_

"Maybe," Legolas somehow caught the train of his thought. "In this form you can do something perhaps with the Valar's intent, that we are unable to achieve to aid Frodo's Quest?"

"_Right,"_ Boromir concluded, pleased that everyone could follow his intent through the Elf's summation. _"But forget the Valar. They've never been much interested in Gondor."_

"That's not true," Aragorn defended.

"_How would you know?"_ Boromir declared, leaving unsaid – again – his opinion regarding how long it had taken for Gondor's long lost King to bother to do anything to help his people.

Something in Aragorn's mind gave him the distinct impression that the other Man had heard his thought and was quickly hiding some memory, some history regarding himself and Gondor that he did not as yet want revealed. This was becoming very awkward.

That thought provoked a snort from Aragorn, and a muttered, "There's an understatement."

"Enough talk. Orcs on the prowl. Let's get moving." Gimli punctuated the advice with another hard slap to Aragorn's shoulder that made Boromir flinch for him. The Dwarf turned about to look down the mountain and into the river-bisected valley. "Where exactly are we going anyway?"

"Lothlorien," Aragorn answered quietly.

The Dwarf erupted into a choking fit that made Boromir want to smile in bitter agreement. Aragorn wanted to go back to something familiar, to the Elves. Boromir didn't blame him, but he would have liked to share that bitter smile with the Dwarf, the one person of the Fellowship, other than Merry and Pippin, with whom Boromir seemed to have most in common. But Boromir didn't have a face to smile with, or anything else, anymore.

He wanted to sigh, and oddly, he did, perhaps because Aragorn had wanted to as well. What would Faramir say about the situation if he were here now? And too, Faramir had always wanted to see Lothlorien. Nothing, Boromir suspected, suddenly deeply saddened. Nothing. He would know we can never share another ale, or laugh together, make battle strategies together...tease each other about Elves and Pirates.

"But...!" Gimli spluttered, finding his voice at last as the group began to move off. "There's a powerful witch lives among those gloomy trees!"

"The Lady Galadriel is not a witch!" Legolas snapped."And the trees of Caras Galadhon are not gloomy!"

Aragorn raised a hand. "Keep your voices down!" he ordered in a low whisper that nonetheless carried on the cold air. "That is where we are going. Pray that the Lady may help us resolve our problem and guide us where we no longer have Gandalf's wisdom to show us the way."


	4. Chapter 4 The Weight of the Dead

TWO DAYS LATER: LOTHLORIEN - CARAS GALADHON

"_- the trees of Caras Galadhon are not gloomy!"_

That, Merry realized, had been a gross understatement. Never in all his life could he have imagined trees like these. Sam had probably peed himself. Appearing as high as mountains, their bark as silver gray as morning mist, their leaves... Their leaves! Shining gold as a dawning sun. But most striking of all was their...

Silently, Merry hunted for the right word. Their presence. Yes, that was it. He'd never have believed he'd wax lyrical to himself about trees, but it was better than tripping over your feet as you gawked upward as had Sam.

The Fellowship had narrowly survived a grueling, exhausting two day walk/run and Merry had been glad of the forest cover after the vulnerable feeling of the open valley floor. Aragorn and Legolas reported that Boromir seemed to have developed the knack of leaving Aragorn's body for brief periods, during which the Gondorian apparently had a bird's eye view of the terrain ahead of them. Most useful, and something Merry suspected, and hoped, had cheered Boromir a little.

Then, at last, ready to drop with the need of food and sleep, they had arrived here, and the awesome beauty of Caras Galadhon had revitalized them all. All but two, he amended, looking again, worriedly, first toward Frodo who climbed the stairs ahead of them all, then to Pippin who walked, head down, closer by Merry.

The surviving Fellowship tramped up the marvelously beautiful stairway, a living part of the trees themselves, as near as Merry could tell, spiraling in and out about the massive trunk. The stairs seemed to have no end, disappearing into the crown of the tree. Turning his attention to his cousin, Merry again noted the slant of Pippin's shoulders, the lowered head.

Pippin, normally a bundle of curiosity, remained worryingly disinterested in their fantastical surrounds.

Desperate to find something, anything, that would break Pippin's grim mood, Merry leaned toward him and whispered, "This is the heart of the world of the Elves, Pippin! This is it! How many times did we hear Sam imagine such a place?"

"A few ales will do that," Pippin said heavily, a wistful sad tone thick in the words. Merry had not intended to remind him of home, The Shire, The Green Dragon. Both he and Pippin had teased Sam, the gardener, mercilessly about his fascination with Elves. For a moment, Merry wondered what Sam was thinking right now. Sam climbed, as ever, close at Frodo's side, offering a supporting arm when his friend tired. They led the way, in the place of honor, Aragorn immediately behind them.

_And they can have it all to themselves!_ Merry thought fervently. He was in no hurry to meet the Witch of the Woods, and could feel Gimli's apprehension like a wave of ice at his back. Behind Gimli and last of their ragged, stinking and dirty, footsore procession, came Legolas who remained as ever, irritatingly clean and unfatigued. Merry would lay odds that Gimli would have stayed on the ground if he hadn't had to prove something to the Elf, or they hadn't been virtual prisoners of Haldir, the Warden of the Forest.

_Speaking as a Hobbit,_ Merry decided, _that's where I'd rather be right now, too! On solid, hopefully non magical, reliable ground._

Pippin plodded onward, not continuing the opening for banter as would normally be their game to ease fear. Merry glanced at his cousin, more deeply worried than ever by Pippin's manner. Pippin really was blaming himself for Gandalf's and Boromir's deaths, despite Boromir's recent words of advice, both to Frodo and he.

"_Don't carry the weight of the dead."_

Merry flinched. Dead.

Gandalf's absence throbbed like an aching raw wound, an emptiness torn somewhere inside. It was hard to believe he was really gone.

And as for Boromir... Somehow it was even worse, knowing they could talk to him but not see him, not hear him. They'd never again hear that wonderful laugh, hear him annoy Aragorn by teaching them the bawdy drinking songs of the soldiers of his command. Nor would they ever again see that great shining grin and feel his strong arms scoop them up and throw them in a weary heap over his broad shoulders. Those shoulders, that chest, had felt so blessedly warm, a safe haven amid the terrible killing cold of Caradhras.

Once, in what seemed another life time now, Merry had wanted to see snow, great mountains of snow, not just a flurry or a thin covering like they sometimes got in the Shire, but _real _snow. The reality had been a nightmare. Thank goodness for Boromir.

"_We must turn back! This will be the death of the Hobbits!"_

_It would have been, my big friend, if you hadn't been there to forge a way through that snow bank and carry us out, _Merry remembered.

And now, you're gone. But, not gone. It hurt to think of it, hurt to think of how Boromir would be coping with knowing he was dead yet still could see life like a child with its nose pressed against a toy shop window. All it dreamed of was there, just beyond that glass pane, all it dreamed of but could not have. Boromir could never go home.

Pippin heaved a great sigh as if he was thinking the same thing. Merry took a quick step upward, more like a small jump for Hobbit legs – and drew level with his cousin again. Pippin didn't even notice, all his attention fixed on his plodding feet as if nothing else mattered but to manage one more step.

"It'll be all right, Pip," Merry said and threw an arm about his cousin's stooped shoulders.

"It won't!" Pippin snapped. "It can't be!"

Merry sighed. "I know. But... Maybe the Lady can help Frodo, at least. Maybe she can take the... Thing... and we can go home."

"Home," Pippin echoed as if the word represented something far stranger and harder to imagine than the incredible magic of Lothlorien. Something impossibly beyond reach.

"We _will _ get back there some day," Merry said, giving it a ring of certainty as, in some weird way, he realized, he did believe that. "We will go home, Pip. All of us."

The confidence in the statement surprised Merry as much as Pippin who lifted his head to meet Merry's gaze at last. Merry wanted to weep at the flickering hope he saw enter his cousin's eyes and light him from within.

Then the light vanished.

"But Gandalf will never visit us there again," Pippin said, "And Boromir can't go home."

Merry nodded agreement and had to look away a moment. Then, turning back, he offered, "Boromir wasn't a bit scared of Gandalf when he got in one of his towering moods. Boromir sure told him off once or twice!" Merry forced something that could have been a chuckle. Pippin said nothing but there was a slight lessening in the tension of his back and shoulders. "Remember what he did at the Door when Gandalf threatened to use your head as a battering ram, Pip'?"

Thinking back to that moment, when he'd been so cold and so dispirited, Merry felt a smile come to him along with the memory of how Boromir had cheered he and his cousin...

_Merry had been anxiously watching the exchange between Gandalf and Pippin, when a sudden sharp intake of breath from Boromir drew his attention. Merry blinked, catching the glow of bright anger that flashed in Boromir's green eyes, the firm set of the jaw biting back furious words. Boromir was most protective of – as was his teasing name for them – his Little Ones. He would be furious that Gandalf had, even in jest, threatened violence to Pippin. Merry knew from past experience that Boromir would not take the Wizard to task about it here and now, but would have a thing or two or three to say about it later to him in private._

_Like a dog shaking water from its coat, Boromir pushed away the anger and plastered a curious, humorously calculating expression on his face. He turned to Pippin and rapped a knuckle on Pippin's head._

_Pippin, who was standing utterly devastated by Gandalf's sharp words, lifted his head in surprise, looking up at Boromir and rubbing a hand over his head, not that the rapping knuckle would have hurt._

"_Hard," Boromir said, frowning as if weighing it up. "But I'm not sure it's hard enough to do the job, Gandalf."_

_He rapped Merry's head and shook his own. "Too soft." That made Pippin snort, if just a little._

_Next,having successfully gained Pippin's attention, Boromir rapped on Gimli's helm, and pretended he had hurt his hand. _

"_Too hard," the Gondorian declared. "Besides, helms don't count." _

_Gimli chuckled, puffing his pipe smoke, his deep set eyes gleaming beneath the helm, as well aware as Merry of what Boromir was trying to do._

_Boromir rapped on Legolas' head next. "No, might mess up that shiny hair," he declared._

_Pippin snorted again, a little more strongly this time. Legolas just smiled and stepped back a little to observe._

_Boromir walked over to where Aragorn was standing with Bill and Sam and Frodo. Intent on whatever he was saying to Sam, Aragorn never noticed Boromir's byplay, nor did he look up as the big Gondorian approached. Boromir rapped sharply on Aragorn's head and got an annoyed what-the-hell-was-that-for look. _

"_We have a winner!" Boromir exclaimed. "Hardest head in all the Fellowship! There you go, Gandalf, the perfect door knocker!"_

"_Harummph!" Gandalf responded distractedly._

_Aragorn turned away from the pony and Sam to examine Boromir like someone would a person they feared might be about to lose his mind. The Ranger's expression of exasperated puzzlement was hilarious. Pippin could not resist and gave in to a laugh. Merry wanted to shake Boromir's massive arm in congratulations and thanks._

"Boromir always helped, always understood," Pippin murmured in soft remembrance.

"He did, and he does," Merry said.

Pippin met Merry's gaze, his eyes liquid and reflecting a thousand tiny lights from those around them in the trees and over them in the night sky.

"What will happen to him now, Merry?" he asked plaintively.

"I don't know, Pip," Merry said honestly. He sighed and climbed another step at the impatient urging of Gimli. "I don't know."


	5. Chapter 5 Gondor's Heart

"_You are welcome here ... My __Lords__," _Galadriel said telepathically, not surprising Boromir as, looking direct at Aragorn, she used the plural. Legolas had known, so Galadriel certainly would see the tangled souls, too. The Lady of Lothlorien had called them aside for a moment's private audience, ushering them to take a few steps away from the rest of the weary Fellowship.

Her words carried the lilt of a lovely female musical tone, even more beautiful than the amazing mallorn trees that filled the glade of Caras Galadhon.

_Just what I need, _Boromir thought, _another_ _voice in my head!_

He heard, and felt, Aragorn snort amusement. Then, loud in his-their mind, came Aragorn's reply to Galadriel, _"It is most good to be back again."_

Behind the words, came the unspoken feeling that to Aragorn this was a second home, a place of great comfort and joy, and a place of rest and protection. As safe and warm as the womb, Boromir interpreted, probing deeper into the feeling. A dangerous place for the Quest on many levels, not least the very real temptation to Aragorn, their new leader.

"_You have ever trusted the judgment of Elves over that of Men," _Boromir asked bluntly. "_Will you now decide The Fellowship, and Frodo especially, will be better off hiding here until someone can be found to replace Gandalf?_

"_None can ever replace Gandalf!" _Aragorn snapped, weary, exhausted, hurting, overwhelmed by the decisions he faced.

If Boromir had still had a body he would have run his hands through his hair and sighed in frustration, then lifted one of those hands toward the other Man in apology. It had only been two days, and this ... situation... was proving more and more difficult in more ways than he could ever have imagined. But then only Faramir's vivid imagination could stretch to this.

"_I am sorry to stir your grief, Aragorn, but these matters must be faced and faced now."_

"_If I trust the Elves, so you do not see the full danger of The Ring! There is no place of safety, nowhere it might be hidden. Nowhere! The Ring cannot stay here!"_

"_No. It cannot," the Lady agreed._

"_This is making me dizzy," _Boromir muttered.

"_You can't get dizzy," _Aragorn pointed out, his anger gone as fast as it had surfaced. His thoughts carried more sympathy than amusement. _"As it seems you can hear each other, I should introduce you. Lady Galadriel meet -"_

"_The Lord Boromir of Gondor. I see you, My Lord."_

"_You do?" _Boromir blurted in pleased surprise. No one had been able to see him since -

"_Gandalf is fallen."_

A flashing image of the Balrog, its fiery whip, coiling about Gandalf's leg, pulling him down into the chasm, hanging by his fingertips, Boromir grabbing his wrist, the two of them pulled down into a bottomless void, spinning, falling... falling ...

The image vanished. Boromir would have been sweating and shaking if his body had been his own, and realized vaguely, that the sickening, vivid memory had produced exactly that effect in Aragorn.

"Aragorn?" Legolas asked in concern, but the Ranger merely waved him off, indicating with a nod of the head that he was not ill.

"_But you are," _Boromir countered, equally concerned. _"You're ready to fall flat on your face."_

A terrible aching yearning came to him from Aragorn's mind and body. Sleep and all its solace beckoned to him and he would embrace it willingly, a part of him desiring never to have to wake, never to have to face the reality of Gandalf's loss.

Until that moment, Boromir had not fully understood how great a love, how great a depth of compassion and understanding the Wizard had given to Aragorn. And now, suddenly, it had been torn away. Boromir knew the feeling, knew time mattered not at all against so great a loss. The emptiness where his mother had once filled his heart never ceased to pain him. And that pain, too, he had in common with Aragorn, his King.

The train of thought came and went in less than a heartbeat, yet Boromir felt the surprised comfort it brought to Aragorn. Something, someone, however fleetingly, had eased his grief, had understood. At last there was something about this cursed soul-tangle that was a positive.

"_Indeed,"_ Aragorn thought at him.

"_How can you see me, Lady?" _Boromir wanted to know, his mind focusing again on the immediate.

"_How can I not?"_

Suddenly, for Boromir, it was almost as if he had a body of his own again. He was standing, looking direct into a pair of intense blue eyes, eyes that probed keenly, thoroughly, seeing far more of Boromir than he might have liked. She saw all The Ring offered him – his brother's and his father's lives, his city thriving, growing, his people safe at last.

"_I see you, Boromir, Heart of Gondor. You shine a great light against the Shadow. You, and your brother, cause it to tremble unlike anything I have seen in a very long time."_

Boromir would have blinked in astonishment if he could.

"_We will speak more of the matter of your... unusual circumstance... as soon as I have tended my other, very weary, guests."_

"_Yes, Lady."_

Boromir wished he could smile, wished he could bend to tuck the blanket back snug again where it had fallen away from Pippin's chest. The youngest Hobbit was at last, blessedly, warm and safe, sleeping on soft pillows amid clean blankets, his cousins close at his side.

Aragorn, seeing the same thing, did smile, as equally pleased. Sensing Boromir's need, he bent and lifted the blanket higher, tucking it carefully tight at Pippin's side.

"_Thank you," _Boromir told him. _"It is good to see them resting, safe, at last."_

Aragorn nodded, then with a prickle of annoyance, added aloud, "If Gimli doesn't wake them!" He dug a booted foot into the snoring Dwarf's side, making Gimli snort and snuffle and roll onto his side. Blessed silence would have filled the glade but for the eerie mourning song of the Elves for Gandalf.

Aragorn turned again to regard the sleeping Hobbits, knowing it was something Boromir wanted to do. "It is a wonder they sleep," he commented, "I think the Lady might have had a hand in it."

"_A wonder?" _Boromir said in surprise. "_They were out on their feet!"_

"True. But they worry greatly for you."

Boromir gave the mental version of a sigh that he had had plenty of cause to practice since his death. _"I would worry greatly for me, too, if I had the time, and didn't have other matters far more pressing."_

"_Come."_

The instinct to jump and turn about to face the voice, hand ready on sword hilt, was so powerful for Boromir that it transmitted itself to Aragorn.

Which left the Ranger standing facing the Lady of Lothlorien, Bearer of a Ring of Power, with his hand at the ready to strike. Boromir felt the other Man's face heat with embarrassment as well as the swiftness with which he dropped his hand away from his sword hilt. An image came, unbidden to Boromir of Aragorn in similar pose amid the snows of Caradhras, ready to take Boromir's head from his shoulders should the Ring have...

"But it didn't win," Aragorn broke in, discomfited by where the thought was taking them, "and I didn't want to kill you."

"_Lucky for you,"_ Boromir told him, suddenly amused by the incident where he never would have believed he could have been a few short days ago. "_I could take you with a sword."_

Aragorn only snorted and shook his head. "Possibly."

"_Come to me!"_ Galadriel repeated.

"Yes, My Lady," Aragorn said, as chastened as if he were five years old again. That impression came from the Lady, Boromir realized. To her perspective on time both Men would in years at least, always appear children.

Galadriel led 'them' to a much smaller sheltered, private glade, a mossy hollow in whose center stood what appeared to Boromir's eyes a very beautiful bird bath.

"A bird bath!" Reading his thought, Galadriel laughed, and it was as if the world lit with life and hope.

Boromir felt Aragorn's pleasure and gratitude. Apparently there were few who could bring such innocent joy to so ageless a person. Few, but for Sam, Boromir guessed.

"Aragorn is right," Galadriel announced.

"_Aragorn is right... on a few rare occasions," _Boromir agreed, making the other Man snort.

But there was little humor in if for Boromir. He needed to keep this conversation on track and was very nervous as to where it might lead. Would the Lady be able to sever his link with Aragorn and send him on his way? Wherever that might be.

Boromir was not afraid of death, it had been too constant a companion for too long and he had grown accustomed, even comfortable in its presence. He had seen so many Men, so much younger than he, die, in every horrible way imaginable, and do it with such a courage that the memory alone would bring tears to his eyes. Yet, now it came, at last, to his turn, he found it hard to summon the same courage.

He was not afraid. He was angry, angry fit to shake the foundations of the world. His people needed him. None other, save for Faramir, would come to their aid. Yet, in many ways, Faramir's hands were tied. Their father should not be Gondor's enemy. Yet, Denethor was. Boromir felt that knowledge send a ripple of some unidentifiable emotion through the other Man, a potent mix of reaction, far too complex to be fully examined in the moment.

"There is no fear in Gondor's True Heart," Galadriel said softly. "No fear other than to see her safe. It does you honor, Boromir."

Not particularly embarrassed by a statement he could only recognize as the greatest abiding truth of his life, Boromir found his only reaction was some impatience. Elves! They drove him to distraction, forever talking in circles and not getting to the point! No wonder Faramir loved them so much! His brother was a great one for long, in depth discussion on every subject under the sun, many of which bored Boromir before they even got underway!

Galadriel laughed a second time. But, thankfully, she also explained her statement. "Aragorn is right. I doubt now that The Ring could sway you."

This time, Boromir did feel himself squirm just a little. That, in his estimation, was not quite true.

"_It... wearied me," _ he admitted. "_If I had lived... I cannot be certain of the outcome of that battle."_

"I am certain of it! Every one of the Fellowship is certain of it!" Aragorn declared with a ferocity that was as startling to Boromir as it was warming. "The cursed Thing would lose!"

"_It's of no matter," _Boromir said, not sure if it was Aragorn's fatigue he was feeling or some greater exhaustion. _"I am beyond Its reach now."_

"Sadly, that is not true," Galadriel corrected, making Boromir start in horrified surprise.

"_How so?" _he demanded, wanting more than ever to feel the familiar reassurance of the hilt of his sword beneath his fingers.

"It can reach you ... through Aragorn."

"I have felt its sour voice," Aragorn admitted. "But only since your death, Boromir. And only in those moments when you... went ahead to scout. You have been a stout bulwark against It."

"_And when I'm... gone," _ Boromir was compelled to ask, "_what then?"_

"Then... I don't know."

"_You __must! __Everything, __everything, __ hinges on you now, Aragorn! Gondor can't wait much longer! We have held so long, so long!" _

The injustice of it, of nine hundred years of Gondor's people living and dying beneath The Shadow, born to grow old guarding against Mordor, while generation after generation of her Kings languished doing who knew what, Boromir felt ready to strangle Aragorn in sheer outraged frustration.

"_Damn it, Aragorn! Gondor needs you! What will it take for you to see it!"_

"I see it," Aragorn replied after a long moment. "I see it, and I see The Ring and Denethor." As great a fury welled in the Ranger, and he snarled, "I see my people murdering each other in my name!"

It was a familiar argument, for all that it was the first time Boromir had actually heard Aragorn voice it. That was a start, at least. And ...

_"My__ people," _Boromir repeated, wondering, feeling a tenuous hope he was not sure he should nurture. Boromir felt the ground beneath his and Aragorn's understanding of one another shift, become something stronger, more durable.

Suddenly, Boromir felt Aragorn stagger and fall to his knees on soft damp grass. Boromir struggled along with him, shaking, unable to get enough air into his lungs, despite his straining. Quickly, remembering the trick of it, Boromir concentrated on lifting himself clear and free to some degree of the other Man's body. He'd done it first accidentally when Aragorn slept, then deliberately when it was needed for him to scout ahead. Then, he was floating overhead, looking down anxiously at the Ranger kneeling in the mossy glade, struggling not to lose consciousness.

"_What's wrong with him?" _Boromir demanded of Galadriel who stood calmly by doing nothing.

"You," she answered concisely, and in a flash of insight, Boromir realized she was right. "The burden of carrying two minds is beyond even one of my People, Boromir."

"_He can't die!" _Boromir snapped over a burgeoning fear. _"He's Gondor's last hope!"_

"As you are Gondor's heart, he is Gondor's blood," Galadriel agreed, still impassively watching the weakened Ranger, who Boromir noted with relief, seemed to be recovering, able to breathe more freely.

"And Faramir," Galadriel finished, regaining Boromir's attention in an instant, "is Gondor's spirit."

"_A fat lot of good fancy words will do for her!" _Boromir snarled, utterly furious. Words were all the Elves had ever offered Gondor. _"Where is your force of arms, bodies ready to stand and fight and bleed alongside us! Where is Gondor's __life?__!"_

"Right here," Aragorn said, and rose to his feet. "Right here, my brother. I swear to you, The White City will not fall, nor our people fail. Not so long as I live."

For a moment, stunned, disbelieving, Boromir could only stare. Then, like the first steady trickle through a thawing wall of ice, hope flooded back into his heart, renewing his strength.

"_My King,_" he replied, knowing if he had had eyes they would be tearing, if he had had a voice, it would be trembling. If he had had arms, they would be around Aragorn.

Aragorn nodded, his eyes bright as they regarded him.

Only then did Boromir realize that Aragorn was indeed looking at him! But that was impossible.

"Your soul has made itself visible to us," Galadriel explained, then added with gentle amusement, "with a little help from the birdbath."

Boromir could see only that something was bathing Aragorn's face, his entire body, in an incandescent glow, a pure white light, a blazing hearth that carried life and strength in its touch.

Boromir saw Aragorn's throat working, swallowing hard, and on a second or third try, Gondor's _King,_ said, "I had not truly seen you before now, My Captain-General, nor understood what you offered. Can you forgive me?"

"_Nothing to forgive,"_ Boromir said, wishing again that he had arms to embrace the other Man. Was it only the strange light that made Aragorn appear so pale? Boromir turned to Galadriel and said urgently, _"Gondor's King must not die! What do I need to do to stop draining him like this? How can I break this ... Healer's Bond, or whatever the damn thing is?"_


	6. Chapter 6  A Wizard's Promise

"I fear it is more than a Healers Link, holds you here, Boromir," Galadriel replied slowly, as if only then fully considering the possibilities.

Aragorn looked at her, eyebrow raised to prompt further information. Boromir could only guess at his own expression, but he dearly wanted to start pacing impatiently.

"Gandalf?" Aragorn asked when still she remained silent, eyes closed in deep thought.

"Partly, yes," she answered opening her eyes to regard him. Then, she turned to Boromir. "I have been reliving the memory you gave me of those last terrible moments."

"_Oh,"_ Boromir murmured understanding. He would much rather never have to think of it again.

"Yet, I must ask it of you," Galadriel said, apparently reading his thought.

Boromir sighed. _"Can't I just... tell you? I'd rather not ... see it again."_

"Very well," she agreed. "The last impression you gave me was of a long, spinning fall with Gandalf and the Balrog not far below."

"_That's right. No, wait..."_

"Yes?"

He hadn't wanted to remember, but now he did and it made his grief for the loss of Gandalf suddenly bite that much deeper. _"He never let go of me."_

Aragorn scrubbed a hand over his face as if in pain. But Galadriel only nodded.

"Nor you him," she said.

"_For all the good it did him," _Boromir said defeatedly.

"You tried," Aragorn said, "It would have meant a lot to him."

"_He thought we were all fools," _Boromir said, dismissing the remark.

"He did," Galadriel agreed. "And loved you for it."

"_Why would anyone love fools?"_ Boromir demanded.

"Because only fools never give up."

Boromir had to admit there was some truth to that. In fact, the words reminded him of Faramir. And that hurt. How he wished he could see his brother's face again, just one more time!

"That is your final memory, of falling?" Galadriel asked intently. "There was nothing beyond that?"

Boromir thought a moment, then shook his head. "Nothing."

"There was no impact as you hit bottom?"

Boromir winced. _"I don't think there __is__ any bottom to that pit."_

"There is a bottom," Galadriel said, "A great and beautiful lake."

"_Oh. I must had died before that."_

"I don't think you did."

Boromir would have snapped that it was all he remembered and what did it matter, but Aragorn's head came up swiftly and he regarded the Lady with ... hope? She couldn't have meant it that way! Could she?

She smiled and lifted a hand to gently touch Aragorn's face. He looked utterly haggard with exhaustion. Or he had. That odd hope burned bright in his eyes now.

"He means much to you," she said.

"Yes," Aragorn said. "There is hope?"

"There is always hope."

Boromir would have been touched by Aragorn's obvious yearning for Boromir's return, but he was too furious with Galadriel to truly notice.

"_There is no hope beyond death!" _he growled. _"Why twist the knife?"_

She turned to him, calm, unfazed by his anger. "A spirit does not remain in this form unless it is still tethered, however tenuously, to its body. Its _living _body."

Boromir instinctively reached to run a hand through his hair in frustration and took some surprised satisfaction in finding that the gesture, at least, if not the feel of his hair beneath his fingertips, was still possible.

"_Even in the unlikely event that my injuries had not already killed me,"_ Boromir said as patiently as he could manage, which was not much, _"my body, smashed beyond recognition, now lies at the bottom of a lake!"_

"You never hit bottom, not with any force," she countered, Aragorn barely breathing as he hung on her every word.

"_That, plainly, is not possible."_

"Not usually, no. But, you and Gandalf remain connected."

"_And we are both dead!"_

"His last words to me were a promise to keep Boromir safe," Aragorn told her, his tone that of awe, of a Man discovering a great secret. Both he and Galadriel ignored Boromir completely, their gazes locking.

"You could have told me sooner," Galadriel chided.

Boromir stared at them in disbelief. _"It was a vain vow! An attempt at consolation!"_

Galadriel turned back to him. "Have you not seen Gandalf command the very elements with words?"

"_I've seen him try,"_ Boromir muttered.

She stood eying him with sharp reproof, a motherly look so like Finduilas that it made his heart clench. Except he didn't have a heart anymore.

He sighed without breath and admitted grudgingly, _"I've seen him win. What he did to stop the Balrog'a advance, was..." _ He shook his head, overcome by the memory and unable to find any word sufficient to label so great an act of selflessness, courage and magic.

"Impossible?" Galadriel prompted sweetly, again reminding him of his mother.

He smiled and tilted his head in acknowledgment of the score.

"A wizard's Word is his life, the source of his magic," she told him sternly, suddenly not at all like Finduilas, "No Word is ever given in vain."

"Are you saying Gandalf has somehow managed to ... to hold Boromir's body somewhere in a place of safety?" Aragorn demanded.

"_He was battling a Balrog for his very life!" _Boromir snapped, though it pained him to destroy not only Aragorn's hope, but the tendrils of it that sought to tempt Aragorn to a world where he might yet return home. _"He had no time to worry about me!"_

"He was only doing what you had already done," Aragorn pointed out, the shadows of the hollows of his face all the more stark for the white light that Boromir's spirit-being shone upon it as the other Man turned fully about to face him again. "You thought only of saving him even while you were dying, why would he not do the same for you?"

Boromir wondered if he could just walk away from this pointless conversation. Maybe he could go wake Gimli and tell him how badly he needed a nice long cold ale after chatting with 'the Witch of the Woods.'

Galadriel laughed, and Boromir found that despite his annoyance and frustration, he could not help but smile.

Her amusement vanished into that ageless wisdom again and suddenly she met his gaze intently, discomfiting him, as she had done at their first meeting.

"I tell you true, Boromir of Gondor," she concluded, "your body lies cocooned in a web that keeps it beyond the tides of time, kept safe by someone who loved you greatly in life and would protect you even beyond the realms of death."

Boromir saw the truth of it in her eyes. _"So, I am to remain in this state forever, even after all those I love are dead and gone ahead to a place where I cannot await them? I do not call that reward!"_

"Gandalf would never leave you so!" Aragorn protested, horror twisting his face into new shadows.

"_Apparently he has!"_

"He was ever absent-minded," Galadriel said softly, making both Men turn to her in disbelief of the light remark. She met their accusing glances evenly. "But he always had a plan."

"_Like letting Frodo walk into Mordor carrying the Ring?" _Boromir snarled.

"Precisely like that," she said, completely unperturbed.

While Boromir remained angry, Aragorn grew thoughtful.

"You think he has some way in mind that the body can be recovered?"

"I do."

"_Wonderful! I can have a State funeral with all the trimmings!" _ Boromir spat._ "Father will be happy!" _

He knew as soon as he said it, of course, that it was anything but true. His father could not survive without him, Denethor's mind already clung by the thinnest thread to sanity. Boromir's death would be the end of him and he'd take Gondor with him to the pyre. Boromir wanted to scream in utter rage at the torture of being here, able to witness it all, completely helpless to do anything to change events or help those he loved with all his heart.

"You have much power in this form, Boromir," Galadriel said. "Almost as much as had Gandalf himself while alive. You may yet change much."

"_I can?"_

"Yes."

"The body," Aragorn remained fixed on the subject, apparently uncaring of a new development that had astounded and given hope to Boromir. "It is still... viable?"

"It is not dead."

"Is there any chance Boromir's spirit could return?"

"_Aragorn, my chest was caved in! None can fix that!"_

"No, I suppose not," Aragorn agreed sadly. "But it seems to me you might yet find you have the choice to return, and die, travel on to Mandos, or remain here as you are, and do what you can to aid the fight."

"If you choose to remain... your fate may be as that of the Elves," Galadriel warned. "Never to die, while those you love go on without you."

"_I would remain, if it will aid victory."_

"Then so it will be, so long as the body remains undisturbed, safe beneath Gandalf's spell."

"_Exactly where is it, if I might ask?"_ Boromir said sourly.

"In the lake, perhaps claimed by the river tide that washes through Moria's bowels."

"That river would carry it to the Entwash... ." Aragorn said in a tone of revelation.

_"So?"_

"The waters of the Entwash are said to have great potency for healing."

_"I remember Faramir badgering everyone about that as a boy," B_oromir said, dismissing the idea for the foolishness it was._ "He suggested we should bottle the stuff and use it on the wounded."_

"A good idea, but for the fact it will work only under guard of the Ancient Trees and their Shepherds," Galadriel said. "Gandalf's spell is designed to keep the body safe for a time and perhaps the Ents' river will aid it if that spell fades."

Boromir wished he could shake his head. His spirit self seemed to manage something of the kind, for Galadriel, plainly caught his distrust of relying on children's tales.

"I have undone Aragorn's bond," Galadriel announced, regaining Boromir's full attention. "As you see, you now have your own separate essence, Boromir."

_"I do?"_

She smiled for his surprise. "You no longer see me through Aragorn's eyes, do you? Nor do you feel the weariness of his body."

_"I..."_ Boromir looked around himself, realizing she was right. He at last had control of where he wanted to be, what he wanted to see. It was a wonderfully freeing sensation to have command of himself once more. _"I thank you, Lady."_ He gave a small bow, pleased he could do such a thing.

"There are limits and some disadvantages, too, to not having a physical self, Boromir. But you will discover those for yourself, and they are minor by comparison to the power your spirit can command free of mortal constraints."

_"Aragorn will recover?"_ Boromir asked, noting with relief that the Man already seemed stronger.

"He will, if he takes some rest."

_"Take that as an order,"_ Boromir told Aragorn with all the stern command he tried on Faramir when his brother over-extended himself. Which sadly, was a frequent occurrence.

"An order I will gladly obey," Aragorn returned with a smile. "I am glad The Fellowship must not also mourn your loss, Boromir, and that we now have the aid of a supernatural ally."

_"Supernatural!"_ Boromir snorted. _"Faramir would love that."_ Immediately, at the repeated mention of his brother's name, came pain, not a physical pain, but a pain of the soul, deep and abiding. He would never see his brother in life again.

"You might joke, but the Witch King will not find it so funny," Aragorn said, drawing Boromir's mind back to the present as if he had read Boromir's pain and sought to distract him from it.

_"What has this to do with the Witch King?"_ Boromir said, glad to take the bait.

"What does the Legend say about him?" Galadriel returned, warming to the subject eagerly.

And then it hit Boromir with a wave of savage vengeance. _"No __man__ may kill him. Does that mean...?"_

Galadriel nodded. "It seems to me it follows. You are not a Man of flesh and blood. I cannot see that the Legend will protect him from you. The Nazgul are Wraiths made of Sauron's twisted magic. You, Boromir, are the exact opposite, a Wraith created from a desire to love and protect. You may accomplish much against The Nazgul in this form. However, you must learn how to fight using the Elements and The Word, the power of the soul, not the power of the sword. There, Celeborn can be of assistance. He has trained wandering human spirits before."

Boromir's jaw would be hanging if he had one. _"This is not the first time this has happened?"_ he demanded, remembering only after he had spoken that Faramir had told him the records in the Houses of Healing spoke of cases of ghostly complications like this for Healers.

"Our lives span several thousand mortal years, Boromir," she reminded him firmly. "Age beyond age allows for experience of every kind. You will find Celeborn can teach you much."

This new development appealed to Boromir, but he wasn't up to taking lessons right now.

_"I thank you, Lady, and I would be most grateful to the Lord Celeborn,"_ he returned politely, _"But, you will forgive me, I hope, if I say I have some ... adapting to do before I can be ready for such training."_

"I understand," she said, dipping her head in acknowledgment of the request. "There is time for all to rest this night."

_"Good!"_ Boromir said, _"Then, if you will pardon me,_ _I'm going to wake Gimli and see if he can figure a way to get some ale into my gullet!"_

Again, the glade lit to Galadriel's amusement. "I will be intrigued to find how he manages that order, General," she said with a smile.

_ "Where there's ale, there's hope," _Boromir gave her the Gondorian soldier's unofficial motto.

With that he strode –or whatever it was he did – from the Glade. If it was true he had some kind of Wizardly powers now he was dead but not quite dead, then he needed a beer to help him come to terms with it.

Or at least the sight of a beer.


	7. Chapter 7 An Unexpected Guide

Chapter Seven – An Unexpected Guide

A/N Just want to thank all the reviewers! I look forward to them as much as they look forward to the new chapters! Thank you! - C

SOMEWHERE NORTH OF GONDOR, FOLLOWING THE ANDUIN

Garad had given up on trying to get Faramir to take some rest.

They had ridden hard all night and on into the morning, taking short breaks to water the horses and change their mounts, saddling the horse that had been following them. Rohirrim horses were a wonder, not requiring tethers or leads. Garad had found they seemed to have developed the ability to keep a man in the saddle even when he had fallen asleep. Well, not a real sleep, but certainly moments of deep dozing.

Garad had jolted awake to find Faramir still wide awake, urging his mount, gently, to greater speed. They had reached more even ground here, on the western bank of the Anduin having at last finished skirting the great marshes. There was an old boat house somewhere to the north where the Entwash met the Great River to the west of the thunderous falls of Rauros. Faramir was making for that, planning to swim the horses across the ford and then swerve East again, eventually leaving the river still further north to head for Moria. They had debated sometime about whether or not to head West and take the Gap of Rohan, but knew that route was thick with Orcs despite Theodred and Eomer's efforts. Then too, the new enemy, the Uruks, were proving far more lethal, backed as they were by Saruman's foul contriving

Still, Garad knew, the tactical considerations would in the end have counted for naught had Faramir's strange bond with his brother told him that would take them to him faster. Garad could almost taste the urgency that pounded thick about them in the dawning sky. Wherever Boromir was, whatever had been his fate, he needed them now, and needed them desperately.

Ahead, Garad saw Faramir sway in the saddle and almost fall, exhaustion pushing him to sleep.

"Come on, Latherial," Garad urged his own tired mount to catch up. Closer, he called, "Faramir! Stop, the horses are -"

Faramir had caught himself short of falling and, fists tight about the pommel of his saddle, was hauling himself upright again. Suddenly, as if struck by an unseen arrow, Faramir thudded backward and Garad caught the flash of white as his Captain's eyes rolled back in his head.

"Not again!" Garad swore, his heels moving to guide his horse close enough to catch Faramir. But no direction was necessary, the horses of their own volition were moving to ensure Faramir came to no harm, slowing and coming together.

"Steady! I have you! Steady!" Garad urged, taking Faramir's weight into his arms. Latherial came to a smooth halt, in precise tandem with Faramir's mount, making it a much easier task for Garad to slide from the saddle and ease Faramir to the ground with him.

Faramir groaned, but not in response to Garad's words, rather he was muttering, trying to speak to someone or something Garad could not see. There was nothing Garad could do other than to cradle the man's upper body clear of the dew soaked grass. Faramir's head rolled against Garad's chest and shoulders, tossing vigorously from side to side as if in argument with someone.

"No!" he moaned. "Must keep on... this way! He calls me!"

Garad shivered, cold to the marrow, and it had nothing to do with the weak light of a typical Mordor dulled sunrise trying to bloom low in the eastern sky. If Faramir was referring to Boromir as 'he', that meant he wasn't talking to his brother. So who... or what...?

Saruman's power spread wider with each new day. Could it be the White Hand reaching out to foul Faramir's vision? Was that why he protested, why his entire body shook like a leaf in a winter gale?

"No," Faramir objected again, and gave a long shuddering moan. "Lose him..."

These trances were always hard on Faramir, but this was different to anything Garad had ever witnessed or anything Boromir had told him of. Normally, the visions took him quietly, deeply, as if he had fallen asleep and was dreaming. This was alarmingly physical, violent, as if ... as if someone else had taken control of his body. Faramir feared Sauron was hovering, ready to claim Boromir's spirit as the Tenth Wraith. Was Sauron able to sense the Link between the brothers? Had he followed it to...

"But -" Faramir muttered, his eyebrows drawn into a tight frown and his fingers digging into Garad's arm. "Can't be sure!"

"_I am sure! Listen to me!"_

"Damn!" Hearing the voice, Garad jerked back, pulling Faramir protectively closer. It wasn't possible. He had to have imagined it. He was very tired, almost asleep. He drew a deep breath, steadying himself, but did not release his grip on his swordhilt. It could be one of Saruman's spells. But it had been a woman's voice, and that made it much more likely one of Garad's dreams. He often heard Elena speaking to him, well, nagging him sometimes.

Faintly, he thought he heard a laugh, a lovely, lilting gentle laugh.

"That's it," he said aloud, "time for a drink."

Speaking aloud helped drive the voice away and shake off the last of the dream, or whatever it had been. Keeping his right hand on the sword hilt, he reached with his left for a flap inside his boot where he kept a flask of Ciran's most potent brew.

"He calls it brandy!" Garad snorted, looking down at Faramir who had relaxed in his arms. But Faramir's head was cocked to one side, in an attitude of intent concentration, listening to a distant voice. It was somehow worse than before, and it made Garad shiver anew.

Garad lifted his head to swiftly survey their surroundings, checking as best he could, while looking through horses' legs, for any sign of the enemy. But the horses would have warned him if they had smelled Orc, or worse. Garad turned his attention to the four horses that had gathered about them in a shielding circle. The intelligent Rohirrim animals wore such bemused expressions, looking down at them and trying to figure what their riders were doing, that it made Garad smile and eased his fear.

"Well, My Captain," he told Faramir, "our four-footed friends here seem to think we're safe enough. Mind waking up and getting back on board?"

"Trying to..." Faramir grouched, making Garad start in surprise, then heave a great sigh of relief.

"You can hear me?"

"Yes. Worse luck." Faramir lifted a shaking hand and tried to rub at his forehead. His eyelids moved, flickering with the effort made to open his eyes and focus on Garad's face. Immediately, realizing Garad was cradling him against his chest, Faramir struggled to sit up unaided.

"Steady there, Oh My Captain!" Garad urged, hauling him back with his right hand. "Give it a moment! You're still shaking."

"No, I'm not," Faramir grumbled, then admitted. "My head hurts."

"I'm not surprised," Garad said, fighting the urge to heave another breath of relief as Faramir's blue eyes cleared and met his friend's gaze levelly. "There seemed to be two of you in there."

Shadows filled Faramir's gaze and he turned his head away, the blue of his eyes deepening like a river whose sun is stolen away by storm clouds.

Garad didn't push the point, he didn't really want confirmation. He took the flask from his boot, uncapped it in a well practiced one-handed move, and held it to Faramir's lips. His Captain turned his head away, refusing the liquor.

"Drink!" Garad demanded. "Damn it, you need it!"

He felt as much as heard Faramir's weary sigh, but the man obeyed, taking a good long swallow.

"Better?" Garad asked, able to see for himself some color return to his friend's face.

"Will be," Faramir said, looking up at him with a faint smile. "When you have some, too, and when you let me go!"

Garad snorted amusement then took a long swig and wiped an arm across his mouth. He put the flask away quickly, his other hand giving Faramir a gentle shove in the back. His Captain needed the aid to get himself into an unsupported seated position.

Faramir just sat there a while, watching a stirring morning breeze painting ripples on the river surface and making the bordering dry bulrushes rattle. Then, quietly he said, "We have to leave the river."

Garad felt his brows climb in surprise. For two days now, Faramir had insisted his brother called to him through the Great River, that it was Faramir's only sure link. Boromir was somewhere to the north, somewhere close to the river, close to the forests that crowded the feet of the Misty Mountains.

"Which way should we go then?" Garad asked carefully.

"West."

"Through Rohan?" Garad knew as well as his Captain that they were now considerably north of Rohan's reach.

"That would take us more southward," Faramir murmured and pulled a dry strand of wild barley grass until it snapped. "We're out of time. We go fast and in a straight line. West."

Garad tensed. There was no sense in this. Other than to get themselves killed and join Boromir in death.

"Saruman would no doubt enjoy our company, Oh My Captain, but -"

"We go west!" Faramir growled,"And we go now!" He pushed himself to his feet but stayed upright only by grabbing at the nearest stirrup strap.

"Fine!" Garad snapped and reached for his own mount's dangling reins. "You're right! It's the fastest way to meet up with Boromir! Go get ourselves killed at Isengard – if we're lucky and we don't get introduced to Saruman's store of treats first!"

Faramir straightened and turned to him, his expression calm, no longer angry. "No sense in us both getting killed, Boromir will only complain there's not enough beer to go around three."

Faramir tried a weak smile for the joke but it failed completely. They stood there, reading the other's eyes for long moments. Death waited behind Faramir's steady gaze, he knew what Isengard would bring them.

"Go back to Henneth Annun, Garad, please," Faramir asked.

"Where my Captain goes, I go," Garad said as the silence drew out, broken only by the hiss of the river and the rattle of the reeds.

"Not this time," Faramir refused. "Boromir is dead. You are no longer bound by that oath. You never were, truth be told."

"He's truly dead?" Garad felt the blood drain from his face, leaving him chilled. "We can't save him?"

"She says he has left his body," Faramir told him and the faintest hint of a shocking smile curved one corner of his lips. "And she should know."

Garad took tighter hold of the reins and his horse shifted, moving to brace him. He'd heard a woman's voice."She?"

"My mother." Faramir's blue eyes lifted, his gaze leaving the river and locking with Garad's.

"Your mother is dead," Garad said, forcing the words out over a dry mouth and a racing pulse.

"She is," Faramir agreed placidly, his gaze never faltering. "And yet she came to me."

Garad said nothing for a long moment, reading the truth of it in his friend's eyes. Yet, it couldn't be. It just could not be! Faramir had spoken in trance before, but always with the living.

"So," Garad thought it through. "She told you Boromir is dead and we should go directly west, toward Isengard."

"Right."

"Damn it, Faramir!" Garad lifted a hand and wrapped his fingers tight about his swordhilt in frustration. "Listen to yourself! You've been heading north, following Boromir's calling. Now, suddenly, you're giving up on him and ready to listen to another voice... a voice coming straight from Isengard!"

"It was Finduilas," Faramir insisted. "She proved herself to me when I doubted."

"How?" Garad demanded.

"She knew..." Faramir looked away again, back to the river, his throat moving, tightening with fresh grief. "She repeated a song, a prayer, I whispered for her hearing only, as she lay dying."

Garad froze, fighting the truth. It still didn't make sense.

Faramir turned back, his eyes again seeking and finding Garad's gaze. "Not even Boromir knows what I sang for her that day, Garad. She truly has come to me."

"To tell you Boromir is dead?" Garad snapped, anger flooding back to warm his face. "Then what's the point in chasing after him? She's sending you to your death, Faramir!"

"_There is yet hope. Boromir wanders, but is not lost." _

The woman's voice returned, clear and strong, and making Garad's heart thump hard enough to bruise ribs. He slid his sword from its scabbard, knowing it would be of no use, but needing its comfort. In the middle distance, between the horses and the river, a mist was forming above the dew silvered grass. Grey and white, it thickened, took on human size, coalesced, edged with finest sky blue. A woman's mantle and hood, cloaking the face.

"Who are you?" Garad demanded, or tried to, his voice a rasping whisper of fear.

A sudden breeze billowed in the blue cloak and lifted the cowl from the woman's face. Red gold hair, waist length, rippled and shone, haloing a fine boned face with stern yet warm gray blue eyes, so like Faramir's. The sun, impossibly, broke free of Mordor's murk to light the glade with golden warmth. Abruptly, Garad's fear vanished. His mind gibbered somewhere that he should beware, but his heart told him overwhelmingly, he would find only peace and truth in this dawn.

"My Lady." Garad bowed low and sheathed the sword.

"My Lord," Finduilas greeted.

"I am no Lord," Garad protested.

"You should be, you will be. If..."

"If Sauron is defeated, the Ring of Power destroyed," Faramir said.

"That is our task," Finduilas agreed, smiling as she turned to her son.

"A task made far more difficult by the loss of Gondor's Captain-General," Garad dared.

"Sauron desires that loss most dearly," Finduilas murmured.

It was said soft and low, yet sharp and cutting. If she had any power to reach him, the Dark Lord would vanish like dew vaporized beneath the sun.

"You must leave the river and turn toward the setting sun," she told Garad.

"But -" He closed his mouth with a snap. This was the Lady Finduilas, not his Captain who expected him to argue the other road just to be sure there were no flaws in his plan.

Finduilas did not smile. "Isengard. The Traitor. It must be risked, if you are to win back my Eldest."

"You have come to me in this form, in the daylight, to convince my friend of our path," Faramir said, not making it a question.

Finduilas nodded. "Otherwise, I fear our loyal Garad would have used force if necessary, to protect you."

"That's my job," Garad agreed flatly. "Take care of my Captain."

Finduilas smiled, such a smile that it puzzled Garad until he hunted down the matching memory. His mother had smiled at him like that when he was a boy and had done something he didn't think was of note but which had impressed her greatly.

"You are well chosen to guard him, and I thank you," Finduilas said, making Garad uncomfortable with the praise. "Knowing you are with my son has often put my heart at ease."

Garad nodded acceptance of the compliment, but was glad when she looked away from him, speaking again to Faramir.

"Garad would be right to try to stop you if I asked you to take this path unaided, my son," she admitted, making Garad far happier than any praise. "But I promise you will find allies, powerful allies, waiting to guide you. And I am not without some power of my own to protect my sons."

"Boromir tells you to turn away from the river?" Garad asked as the Lady's presence began to thin and the dawn grow gray and cold once more.

"No. I see his body, I was drawn to it at the moment of death and remain so because his spirit has not come home to me as it should. He is beyond my sight and does not speak to me. He cannot. Something shields him, protects him. His soul abides somewhere to the north, beneath Lothlorien's guard."

"Then why send us westward?" Garad demanded.

"That is where you will find my son's body," Finduilas said sadly. "Hurry! You must hurry! Gandalf's spell of holding time about it will fade as he makes the Change from Gray to White."

"Gandalf has stopped time about the body?" Garad echoed in patent disbelief.

In a whirl of cold wind, the ghost vanished.

Garad just stood a moment, staring in astonishment and suspicion at where the apparition had come and gone. Then, he turned and ran his hand over the warmth of his horse's neck, wanting something solid and real to reassure him he had not been taken to some world of dreams and visions.

A hand slapped him on the back, making him near jump out of his skin. He swung about to meet Faramir's wry smile.

"We go west," his Captain said.

"What the hell was that?" Garad demanded, waving a hand in the direction the woman, if it had been a woman, had appeared to them.

"That was my mother." Faramir said, a little testily.

"You're sure?"

Faramir just looked at him, until at last Garad had to look away. But adamant they should take care, Garad insisted, "It could as easily have been of the enemy's making."

"It was not," Faramir told him, completely certain. He turned to his horse and swung into the saddle. "I should have known she would answer Boromir's call," he added.

Despite his weariness, Garad vaulted up onto his own mount, wanting to prove to Faramir that he was fine, he was keeping up. Faramir gave him a raised eyebrow, reminding him of Boromir. He was fooling no one.

Then something occurred to Garad. "Wait a moment. She said she couldn't reach Boromir's spirit so how can she say she knows he's in Lothlorien?"

"Reach, no. Sense approximate location of, yes."

"Oh, well, then, "Garad said, putting as much sarcasm as he could muster into the words. "Approximate. That's just fine and dandy!"

Faramir sighed and reined his horse to move closer to Garad's. He lay a hand to Garad's arm, the touch saying more than words. "We'll find him. She knows where the body is. She will remain tied to it until Boromir returns. I ask much of you Garad," Faramir tightened his grip affectionately. "I always have. But this time... this time, I cannot expect your trust."

"You have it, no matter," Garad told him, meeting his gaze. "I trust your instincts, Faramir, they've saved my life enough times. But, Isengard..." He sighed. "Sounds like suicide."

Faramir shook his head. "We will stay clear of Saruman. I promise you."

Giving up on arguing, Garad only nodded and urged his horse into a gallop.

Heading west. Directly toward trouble.


	8. Chapter 8 Amon Hen

_"I agree, Legolas,_" Boromir weighed into the argument, studying the surrounds of the latest place chosen to shelter The Fellowship as they traveled south by boat along the Great River. Amon Hen, The Seat of Seeing. _"Something doesn't feel right about this place."_

"Look at them!" Aragorn snapped. "Frodo must rest. And we cannot go further south with Rauros blocking our path! We turn east, but not without rest." He waved an arm toward the magnificent falls that turned the giant river to mist billowing into the late autumn afternoon. Then his arm continued its arc, the Ring of Barahir flashing on his finger as he pointed out across the lake, east.

The day was still and unnaturally warm. That alone was unsettling.

"_The Ring,"_ Boromir warned. _"It draws more strength here. Something lends it aid. It presses Frodo hard, presses all of us hard."_

Aragorn flicked him a look and he admitted, _"Worse. Much worse." _

The images of death and horror that the cursed thing sent to him now were hard to endure and impossible to shake off. Especially those of Faramir's fate. He saw his brother, burned alive, unable to help himself, his head turning on a pallet of flames, begging Boromir to save him. But Boromir could not, unless he took the Ring, only It could alter Faramir's fate and save him.

_"Get out of my head!" _Boromir commanded, and sullenly, the Ring's voice faded. He'd never had the power to make it do that before. Maybe there was something to being dead, after all.

"He hasn't said a word all day, not even to Sam," Aragorn said anxiously.

He turned and looked where Frodo was sitting listlessly, gaze downcast, not noticing as Sam, Merry, Pippin and Gimli organized themselves to find wood to get a small fire going.

"Now, you just stay here and rest while I find my gear," Sam said, his voice full of hope that maybe this time Frodo might give some sign he had heard. "If that lot can find me some firewood, I'll have some nice hot soup into you in no time."

Boromir admired Sam for many reasons, not least his abiding optimism and cheer. Soup? What would he find to put in it? More of the herbs the Elves had given them, he supposed, giving a mental shudder and glad he would not be expected to eat it. Frodo needed more than a thin herbal tea disguised as soup.

"Thank you, Sam," Frodo said, surprising his friend and lighting Sam's face with happiness.

Aragorn too, was buoyed by Frodo's returned attention and interest. But as soon as Sam turned away, Frodo's grim and worn expression returned and he slumped down, shoulders hunched and head bowed. He stirred only to rub his hands together as Gimli struck sparks from his flint and a few fitful flames began to take hold of the kindling he had placed close to Frodo.

"We will rest until nightfall," Aragorn decided. "We cannot take the Eastern shore by daylight."

"Can't take it by dark, either," Gimli humphed, overhearing where he passed close by, heading into the beech forest for more wood, and saving Boromir the trouble of answering.

Aragorn gave one of his usual heavy sighs. Boromir felt a sudden pang of sympathy. It was not a task he would want, trying to follow Gandalf's plan, as impossible as it was proving to be.

"Day or night, that is our road," Aragorn said with finality.

"Agreed, then," Legolas said mildly and clapped his long time friend on the back and moved as smoothly as ever, to follow the foraging party.

The two, Boromir now knew, had traveled many a difficult path together. He had yet to hear the full story of how they had tracked Gollum in Mordor and returned him to Mirkwood. Aragorn had been near dead with exhaustion, Boromir knew that much.

"_I'll try to muster some of that shielding energy I'm supposed to have,"_ Boromir told the other Man.

"If Celeborn said you have it, then you do," Aragorn told him tersely.

"_I'll give you cover while Frodo rests,"_ Boromir told him, then added to himself, _"__Somehow__."_

Aragorn frowned toward where Frodo was all but asleep huddled close to the small fire. Sam watched him worriedly, hunting through his pack for whatever cooking utensils he thought they might need.

"That soup needs meat," Aragorn said.

"_That I can do,"_ Boromir said with a wry smile. _"I've got spooking the wildlife down to a fine art."_

Aragorn snorted. He didn't need any help with hunting, that Boromir knew for a fact. But it might save them some time. More importantly, it would allow Aragorn to stay on guard close by Frodo. The Ring's power was building dangerously with every step they took closer to Mordor.

It took only a moment's thought to locate Merry and Pippin's bright auras, somewhere deeper in the woods, uphill, and take himself there.

But, he realized immediately, he couldn't sense any animal life from a wider perimeter than the narrow area in which his friends sought firewood. He tried to float higher, to see the terrain and determine what was wrong. He struck something, unseen, cold, dark, something of the enemy's making. A dome, covering the lower half of Amon Hen and keeping him from sensing anything outside its shielding. Now, he could see beyond it, and what he saw filled him with alarm and dread. Orcs, or more precisely, Saruman's Uruk-hai, their faces daubed with white paint in the rough shape of a hand. These new Orcs were indeed giants by comparison to Orcs and there were many, dozens and dozens, seeking to outflank and encircle The Fellowship's small camp.

"_Aragorn!"_ Boromir called. _"Enemy! They have us trapped against the lake!"_

"Frodo! Sam!" He heard Aragorn warn though no one else would have heard a sound, "To me! Hide!"

Legolas and Gimli were already on their way at a run back to help Aragorn protect the Ringbearer and Sam. Which left ...

"_Merry! Pippin! Hide!"_ Boromir summoned them, but did not wait for them to move. Rather he tried to spread his energy form, shielding them as best he could, still clumsy with learning the ways of the spirit dimension.

Merry and Pippin obeyed instantly, and only just in time. They disappeared from sight, their Elven Cloaks serving them well as they dove for cover in the hollows of a massive, fallen and moss-covered tree.

The enemy burst through their own dark shield, no doubt the work of Saruman. Sauron had a rival for The RIng. In the back of Boromir's mind, a part of him immediately set to trying to think of ways that situation could be turned to Gondor's advantage, and in aid of The Quest.

Boromir immediately spotted the enemy Captain by the creatures' continual snarled command, "Find The Halflings! Find the Halflings!"

Saruman definitely had the tactical situation by the throat. The enemy numbers increased rapidly as more and more of the thickly-muscled creatures swarmed over the hill, hunting everywhere. They had no intention of leaving Amon Hen, despite being unable to see their prey. Saruman somehow knew Frodo was here.

The Seat of Seeing! Of course The White Wizard would have direct access to the place!

"_They're not leaving,"_ Boromir told Aragorn, making his silent connection as veiled as possible. _"Stay down. I have an idea."_

He sensed more than heard Aragorn's assent. From Gimli came a doubting grunt as dubious as any of Garad's reactions whenever Boromir had made such an announcement in the heat of battle. He could almost hear the big Ranger's, "Get ready to duck, boys! Gonna get interesting!"

Gathering the power of the Elements, Earth and Air, Boromir focused and brought them together just beneath the stones that were the foundations of the Seat at the top of the hill. There was a thunderous crack, a deafening explosion and a long, low rumble. The Uruks looked up fearfully, then began running as huge sections of stonework toppled, gathering speed and hurtling toward them. Boromir felt savage enjoyment as several of the creatures were caught, pinned and crushed. Their Captain avoided death by a hair's breadth, spitting fury. He could sense Boromir's presence but could do nothing to counter him.

Saruman, however, could.

The White Wizard's spell roared through the air and slammed into Boromir's presence, trying to tear him apart. Completely inexperienced with this form of fighting, Boromir rapidly lost ground, his spirit body weakening, dispersing and scattered like a tent torn to pieces by a gale and hurled out into the dark of the storm. He pushed back without impact, felt himself growing weaker...

"Boromir!" Pippin cried, but had the good sense at least to stay down. There was nothing he could do. Boromir was glad the Uruks had not heard the cry over the echoing thunder of the rock fall and the screams of their wounded.

"Something's attacking him!" Merry cried, just as helpless to do anything about it.

But Frodo, could, suddenly putting on the Ring, he became visible on the etheric plane. That pulled Saruman away from Boromir but put The Quest in mortal peril.

_'Remember, The Horn of Vorondil has its own presence on the spirit plane,' Boromir recalled Celeborn's advice, "It is a mighty weapon and will summon aid in need.'_

Dizzy, blind, and still trying to regain his strength, Boromir instinctively thought to use hands to bring the horn to his lips. He had neither, but the Horn indeed knew his need and flew to his ghostly grasp. Power flooded through him and he brought the Horn easily to his command. He had no physical mouth, but he could gather Air.

The Horn sounded, ringing, resounding, amplified by the bowl-like glade of Amon Hen.

Startled, the Uruks paused in their hunt to stare fearfully about them. Some huddled down, hands over their heads, utterly terrified. Their Captain, driven by Saruman, drew a whip, began lashing at them.

Frodo, aided by Sam, took The Ring from his finger and was pushed into hiding.

The White Wizard lingered, slinking lower about the hillside like a cowered, trapped fox, sniffing for another scent of the Ring.

"This way! Halflings!" the Uruk leader relayed the Wizard's order. Boromir's effort had felled a dozen or more, but their numbers still heavily outweighed the Fellowship, more appearing suddenly from the other side of the hill.

Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli fought grimly, fiercely, the Elf's arrows flying with impossible speed and accuracy and Aragorn's sword fairly singing in his hands. Gimli's axe hewed down many, but not enough. The enemy swarmed down upon them. A wounded Uruk, feigning death, came up behind Aragorn's strike, its thick ugly blade hacking.

Boromir shoved, palm outward, as Galadriel had shown him. The blast of air sent both Uruk and Aragorn staggering backward. Aragorn swiveled to kill the creature but took a glancing blow to the head from another enemy that sent him reeling, falling, unconscious and bleeding.

The enemy were dangerously close to claiming The Ring, stumbling closer to where Frodo and Sam crouched in hiding.

Boromir blew a second, then a third blast. It was said that would summon aid, but from where? Mindful of the tales, he had never before blown the Horn thrice. The Fellowship was within Gondor's borders but only barely. A handful of of border Guards perhaps, might hear the Horn, but could not possibly reach them in time...

"Oy! Over here!"

Boromir started, his attention drawn back to the physical realm by the familiar voices. Merry and Pippin had darted forward, breaking clear of cover, calling out, drawing the enemy to them.

"_No!"_ Boromir cried. Aragorn had been wounded despite Boromir's efforts and his own strong sword arm, but Merry and Pippin were much smaller, much more vulnerable.

"Decoys!" Merry answered, Pippin finishing, "Just like you said, Boromir!"

Boromir groaned. He had said the three of them were the expendables of The Fellowship. But he hadn't meant it like this.

The Uruk Captain turned, his teeth bared in triumph and his yellow eyes flashing .

"There!" he shouted, an arm lifted, the hand extended, the blunt fingers pointing. "The Halflings! Take them!"

Suddenly, forming around Boromir like a great shining wall something was taking shape, something Boromir's heart recognized, calling joyful welcome, knowing before his mind could grasp it. Gondor! Gondor! Came the cry from a thousand voices, responding to the third blast of the Horn of Vorondil.

The wall coalesced into black and silver garbed and helmed soldiers and Boromir, drawn deeper into the non-physical battle, lost sight of Merry and Pippin. He could only hope that the successful martially of Gondor's Spirit Army would help them, too.

"_To Boromir!"_ someone called, someone impossibly familiar.

Ecthelion!

Boromir had loved him his grandfather, a man who could even make Denethor laugh. He appeared younger than Boromir had ever seen him in life and less tall, or perhaps that was because Boromir had grown.

Ecthelion stood, straight and proud, and turned to bestow an impish grin upon his grandson.

"_You called. We have come,"_ he said. _"Gondor ever stands beneath her Captain's banner."_

The Army set to with a will, and Boromir envied them, for though they were not flesh and bone, they fought as if there were, hacking and chopping with a hundred hungry ghostly blades, everyone imprinted with the symbol of The White Tree of Gondor. More than a match for the White Hand.

But, abruptly, a cold wind erupted amid the Gondorian ranks, a maelstrom far worse than anything Saruman could muster. Frodo's attempt to save Boromir by putting on The Ring had drawn Sauron into the fray. Like a whirlpool hidden in white water rapids, it drew the Gondorian soldiers in and began swallowing them one by one. Boromir struggled to aid them, to repel the storm with his own blasts.

Swooping down amid the thudding wings of his monstrous mount, The Witch King's barbed helm and mace marked him. Cruel talons added to the power of the mace and Sauron's spell to scatter the ghostly Gondorian army.

"_No!"_ Boromir roared. Filled with fury he drew power, more and more, draining it from trees, earth, ground, stone, water, and sunlight itself. Gondor gave itself to him willingly, claiming its own. It filled him until he knew that to draw more could be to destroy himself as well as the enemy. He cared not, knowing only the urgent need to defend his men.

"Careful!" Ecthelion instructed.

Boromir laughed.

Allowing the stored energy to stream through his right arm, he drew his sword and dove direct at the Witch King. Boromir thrilled to the scent of his enemy's fear as it thickened about him. The Witch King knew. A foe made of spirit, free of the confines of flesh and blood, this foe would be his death.

The Witch King brought his blade up to meet Boromir's thrust. All the gathered energy exploded, dazing Boromir and blinding him as it erupted, white hot, incandescent, devouring.

Driven back by its heat, Boromir struggled to regather himself, to draw power again and rejoin the fight. But he had taken too much, had been wounded by his own summoning. Diminished to a tiny orb of flickering light, he barely had the strength to focus on the battlefield.

As his sight returned, he could only gape, wordlessly at the destruction he had wrought. Felled and burned in their dozens, the enemy lay dead, the trees of the glade withered, the ground seared.

_"The Ring Bearer is safe,"_ Ecthelion told him. _"As is your King. Your power will not harm those it loves."_

Relieved, Boromir turned, gladdened to share this moment of victory with the grandfather he loved. But Ecthelion did not return his smile, his expression grave and sad.

_"You have not changed, My Boy!" Ecthelion laughed. "Why use a pinch when a handful will serve! You chased off The Witch King,"_ he congratulated.

But there was a forced cheer to his laugh and his words that took the edge from any pleasure Boromir might have found in the greeting. Boromir had always been able to read his grandfather. The child he had been would have been fooled, but not the Man he had become. Something was wrong.

_"Merry! Pippin!" _he whispered. Below him on the battlefield, he counted only five of The Fellowship where there should have been seven. With sadness rather than alarm, he saw Frodo and Sam had taken one of the boats and were heading across the lake, ready to continue the journey to Mordor, alone. If he had not died, Boromir's instincts would be to stop them. But now, in spirit form, he felt somehow that this was the only way and could sympathize with Gandalf's intent. It didn't make sense, but then many of the best victories had been won by discarding logic and following the heart.

Drained by the effort at drawing so much power, Boromir searched the blasted and burned hillside, seeking, calling to Merry and Pippin. Dreading, cold, Boromir's essence shivered and thinned on the breeze that swirled fallen leaves across the bowl of the glade as he sought them in vain. His remaining friends' bright presences drew him closer, warming him even though he found Aragorn lay unconscious.

_"The Ring Bearer is safe,"_ Ecthelion repeated. _"But only because of your small friends' sacrifice. As Frodo and Sam must continue alone, so must you allow Merry and Pippin to clear their path by drawing the enemy away from them. They have been captured."_

_ "No!"_ Boromir denied even as he recognized the truth of it. _"We won! The enemy are dead!"_

_"Not all,"_ Ecthelion replied. _"While Sauron was busy sending his Nazgul, Saruman took his chance. He believes he has the Ring. He took your bait, Boromir. The Ring is safe only because of it. I cannot remain on this plane longer, but I am glad to have had the chance to fight at your side, My Boy."_

And with no further warning, he vanished from Boromir's mind.

_"Merry! Pippin!"_ Boromir cried, hoping against hope, "To me!"

"The enemy took them, Laddie," Gimli replied in his mind. "But they won't get far."

"We will hunt them," Legolas promised, but he did not look toward Boromir's presence. The Elf's hands were red with blood, Aragorn's blood. Legolas had torn a strip from his tunic and was winding it again and again about Aragorn's head, but still the blood soaked through.

_"How bad?"_ Boromir demanded.

Legolas sighed. "It is a scalp wound, what damage lies beneath I cannot say."

Boromir well knew what that meant. It could be nothing, Aragorn could appear to recover, join the chase. And then drop dead.

_"Stay here, take care of him,_" Boromir instructed. _"I'll go after Merry and Pippin."_

"How will you help them?" Gimli asked.

_"I'll think of something."_

"I will hear you" Legolas said distractedly, "and you can tell us exactly where you are and direct is to catch up to them. If Aragorn is not badly hurt. We will follow soon."

Boromir, already focusing on tracking the Uruks, merely inclined his head in acknowledgment, then he was flying away from Amon Hen, above the forested hills. Below he could clearly see the enemy who had eluded him. A band of Uruks and Orcs, no more than twenty in number, bearing the White Hand and hidden from his view by Saruman as they claimed their prize. His two small friends, helpless, unconscious, having succeeded in saving the Quest, had become captives.

Somehow, Boromir must see to it that their sacrifice would not prove fatal.


	9. Chapter 9  A Desperate Search

They had ridden west for two days without rest. Now, as evening descended among fiery red burnished clouds, Faramir, suddenly, inexplicably, had led them away from the small stream they had followed thus far. Garad had been more relieved than puzzled. They headed more directly northward, the forbidding walls of Fangorn at their left side. Finally, Fararmir veered west once more, toward the forest.

Lagging behind, dozing in the saddle, Garad came awake as his weary horse stumbled a little, catching the change in direction.

Barely able to remain in the saddle despite his mount's efforts to keep him aboard, Garad seated himself more securely. Then, he looked ahead, and what he saw made him urge his mount to close the distance and fast.

Gallantly, the horse obeyed. Faramir had stopped, was dismounting immediately under the very eaves of the forest, as if he intended entering it on foot. With his brave horse laboring for breath and covered in sweat, Garad halted to find Faramir's mount similarly distressed. Even the two spares, who arrived moments later, were not much better off. Horses of any other bloodline would have died under them long since.

Faramir swayed on his feet as he took a few paces toward the looming trees.

"Where are you going?" Garad called. "Wait! We need to rest! You can't go in there!"

Faramir did not answer, did not appear to have heard, but he did slow, then stop, to stand again staring at Fangorn as if by sheer effort of will he could make the deadly forest disappear. It seemed Fangorn was astride the path Faramir followed, honing in on his mysterious sense of his dead brother's presence.

Or so Faramir believed. But was it really so? Could this be a foul trap wrought by the same enemy who deceived Denethor?

Normally, Garad would have vaulted out of the saddle to stand beside his Captain. But now, he found he was so stiff and sore that it was all he could do to drag a leg up and over his mount. As if reading his thought, his horse obliged, lowering itself closer to the damp grass, perhaps as glad to lie down. Garad stroked the horse's nose with wordless gratitude as he dismounted.

Faramir stood with his back to Garad, unreadable as he regarded the looming darkness of the forest wall. Tension and exhaustion burdened him, making his shoulders hunch.

Fangorn. Garad's gaze swept its threatening borders. As far as his eyes could follow, he found nothing but an impenetrable, scowling green visage, ready to eat them alive.

"Faramir?" he called, finding his voice too, was not as strong as it should have been. He couldn't remember when they had last stopped to eat. Had it been just before last dark?

"Faramir!" he repeated, drawing a deeper breath to force urgency into his tone.

Taking the wrapped bread, dried meat and apples from the saddle bag, Garad walked stiffly to his Captain and lay a his free hand to Faramir's shoulder. The taut muscles were like rock beneath his touch. Garad's throat constricted as he tried to imagine the burden of grief carried by his friend. It was difficult enough for Garad to come to terms with losing Boromir. And all they would gain from this desperate hunt was the dead body of Gondor's Captain General to carry home to her grieving people.

"Here," Garad said gruffly, and shoved the bundle at his Captain. "You must eat."

Thankfully, Faramir nodded and took the food then squatted down, uncaring of the damp grass.

It had rained during the night past, drenching them and making Garad shiver until his teeth had rattled more loudly than the sound of the horses' hoofbeats. Then, the sun had risen and slowly dried him off.

Sighing relief at the chance to rest, Garad turned to sit on a knee-high outcropping of stone, facing the forest. He would not sit with his back to the trees, as had Faramir. From here, Garad could move quickly – well, reasonably quickly – if action was needed. He kept one hand on his sword hilt as he ate. He didn't trust the massive trees whose gnarled and twisted branches resembled powerful arms, straining to reach them. The forest made him feel ill at ease. It was irrational, and probably only due to hearing too many lurid tales about Fangorn as a boy, but he would swear he could hear the creaking of wood as those giant trees sought to move, to lean outward, to attack.

"Which way from here?" he asked Faramir as the other Man chewed a mouthful of bread and meat.

Faramir tilted his head backward. "In there."

"Fangorn!" Garad exclaimed. "You have to be joking."

"That's the way we're going," Faramir replied and took a bite of apple.

"The horses won't go in there."

Faramir shrugged. "They are born of the Mearas. They'll find their way back to their cousins. Eomer's eored patrols these lands."

"Good," Garad said. "The horses can bring him to us."

"We don't need Eomer," Faramir said. "And we don't have the time to wait for him." He looked away from Garad before he could admit, "Boromir's fading, Garad. I could sense him clearly a day ago. Now... it's like trying to find a single thread of yarn in a woolen mist."

Garad could find nothing to say. The weight of the realization that Boromir was truly gone was finally beginning to sink in. It was crushing, impossible to imagine Gondor without his boisterous presence, stern or laughing with his men, but never unnoticed. Always, ever, he stood as Minas Tirith's true heart. Now, the city would be gutted. It was bad enough, a horror from nightmare to imagine retrieving Boromir's dead and broken body, but somehow it was worse still to imagine carrying him home, lifeless, to the city and the people who so loved him.

Finally, Garad said, "It's going to be dark as a pit in there. I'll light a torch." He turned away, hunting for a suitable branch among a deadfall he had seen behind the rock outcropping.

"Leave it," Faramir said.

Garad looked up at him in surprise. "What?"

"Leave it." Faramir repeated and waved an arm toward the trees. "They won't like it."

Garad blinked and wondered if he had fallen asleep and was imagining this insane conservation. "What?" he said again. "It'll be dark -"

"This forest is old beyond time," Faramir said quietly. "We're about to enter a sacred world where trees... trees are not as we know them. They see and hear and know. Leave it."

Garad let the branch drop from his hand, hoping, now, that he was dreaming, but somehow knowing he didn't have that much luck.

"When night falls, we'll have no light at all," he warned.

"It'll be all right," Faramir said, turning to look at him. His gaze slid over Garad's face, not really seeing him, just a token acknowledgment. Usually, in any situation in which they were about to enter deadly danger, Faramir would have met his eyes with something, a reassuring smile, might even have tried a joke for his Square. But now, now he was as expressionless as stone.

"Mother will light our way if need be," Faramir said, and Garad was suddenly cold through to the bone. Faramir wandered as if in a dream or a nightmare. Suddenly, Garad doubted his Captain's ability to lead.

"Faramir, wait, listen to me."

Grudgingly, Faramir obeyed, heaving a sigh that gave Garad some hope, at least his friend could still feel exasperation, impatience, weariness.

"Look at me," Garad demanded.

Faramir lifted his head and met his friend's tired eyes. This was a different Faramir, a Faramir who breathed only for duty, the light of life no longer gleamed in his eyes. His gaze was flat, dull and defeated. But at least he was seeing Garad again.

"I'm all right, Garad, I'm all right," Faramir assured, reading Garad's doubt. "I was just... away for the moment, listening to her."

Garad frowned. "She's still here?"

"She never left. She's been guiding us all along. I told you that, didn't I?"

"No. Why has she suddenly changed her mind and asked us to leave the river and enter Fangorn? Faramir, we're both out on our feet. This is Saruman's realm, or damn near enough. Isn't it possible he could be -?"

"No!" Faramir snapped, and Garad was pleased to see anger light those so broken eyes. Some emotion was better than none. But this was a Faramir driven to extremes, unable to judge clearly. "Saruman could never emulate her. You saw her rarely, Garad. Do you remember her at all?"

"Of course I remember her!" Garad said, stung. "She often came to watch us all playing together. Or maybe you don't remember. You were only very small at the time."

"I remember. The question is, can you bring her to mind here and now?" Faramir asked. "Try, and you might stop wondering if Saruman could deceive me like that."

Garad sighed and reluctantly, closed his eyes.

An image came to him of those cherished, bright moments of his early boyhood when he'd still been too small, too young to really grasp the savage world of war that existed beyond the safe walls of the city. Boromir had had Finduilas' manner, the same gentleness beneath the bluster. Most clearly, Garad recalled Finuduilas' soft, calming voice, her smile, and especially her laugh. His gut tightened as it came to him that her laugh and Boromir's were mirror images.

Suddenly, so desperately that it made Garad's eyes burn, he wanted to hear Boromir laugh again. He couldn't be dead! Garad wanted to scream it to the sky, to beg Boromir not to be dead.

Garad opened his eyes and saw Faramir nod understanding, gripping his arm warmly a moment, then letting go.

"Ready?" Faramir asked.

Glad of that touch, Garad was reassured, Fararmir might, understandably, retreat into himself, but he would not entirely lose himself.

"Together," Garad replied, deliberately using one of Boromir's favored expressions, "Let's get him out of here."

Faramir's eyes dulled again and he turned swiftly away. "Mind the trees," he warned. "I can feel them, listening to us."

"Trees cannot listen," Garad said, trying for a light tone as he followed, "They have no ears."

"Hush," Faramir said and stepped forward, ducking under a curved, moss and lichen-draped branch. Instantly, like someone diving into a river, Faramir's form was blotted by shadows that shifted and altered constantly.

Tamping down his misgivings, Garad hurried after, not wanting to lose sight of the him in such uncertain light. He was sure there was not the least breeze, yet here the branches groaned and creaked, the leaves rustling restlessly, as if... as if the legends were true and the trees muttered to themselves.

"Are you sure you can find the way in here?" Garad asked Faramir after a time, unable to remain quiet a moment longer amid a deepening sense that the trees were indeed watching them, spying on their every move.

"It's closer now," Faramir replied, still intent on whatever unseen trail he was following.

"Oh, good." Garad was not particularly reassured.

They plodded on and it became more and more dark, how Faramir could see at all was beyond him. There was no way of judging direction for the thick canopy overhead soaked up the sunlight and distorted what few fitful beams managed to leak through to the forest floor. All Garad knew was that they had walked for at least two hours.

"It'll be nightfall soon," he told Faramir. "Best we ... reach our target well rested." There was no response and he asked, "Faramir?"

This time the other Man at least indicated he had heard, giving a shrug of his shoulders that Garad knew meant, "Soon." But soon for a Faramir intent on any task was always hours away. And they didn't have hours. They must make camp while they could still see at all, if fire was forbidden in here.

"This place is as good as any, then," Garad said, trying to make Faramir stop and look. "It's clear and the moss is soft."

"I'm going on," Faramir said. "Rest. You'll be safe enough here."

Garad's jaw dropped. The cardinal rule was that you never worked without a back up in enemy terrain. "Faramir!" he snapped. "We _both_ rest! And we rest now!"

"No," Faramir said, with that same eerie calm that had chilled Garad earlier.

Garad took a one long stride and grabbed Faramir's arm. "We haven't slept in two days! We stop! Or does your mother want you dead, too!"

Faramir pulled his arm free. "Sleep. You'll be safe here."

"Safe!" Garad echoed in sheer disbelief. "Wake up! Take a look around!"

Ignoring him, Faramir continued on.

About to follow, Garad tripped and went heavily to his knees. He tried to push himself up but a branch snagged his shirt and held him in place. He lifted his right hand to free himself, but another branch somehow managed to tangle itself with his sleeve and yet another pressed down on his foot. He slid his left hand toward the dagger hilt at the top of his left boot.

"No!" Faramir cried, sounding wide awake, and full of alarm. "Garad! No knives!"

Too late, Garad found his left arm encircled by... something, a mix of vine and branch. Whatever it was, it spiraled painfully about his left arm, loop after loop, tighter and tighter, until Garad gasped in pain. Another branch began twining about his chest. Garad could not move.

"Leave him!" Faramir roared and Garad looked up to find his Captain standing over him beating at the tree with gloved fists.

The thing eased up enough to let him draw a gasping breath, but it still held tight enough to his left arm to break bones.

"Let him go!" Faramir demanded. "Let _go_!"

"Saruman's spell?" Garad asked, managing to crane his head round to look up at the monster imprisoning him and knowing only a Wizard could make a tree come alive and eat someone.

"No," Faramir said. "The tree moves of its own mind."

Garad snorted. "Trees can't -!" The denial ended in a grunt as the branch about his chest suddenly tightened again and he felt a rib crack. He had no breath for a gasp of pain.

"Stop!" a deep voice boomed about them, coming from where or what, Garad could not discern.

"Stop!" It repeated, full of anger, and so deep and resounding that it made Garad's ears hurt. "Leave him! Go back to sleep!"

Something walloped the tree that held Garad, hitting it hard enough that it reverberated all the way down and through Garad's protesting rib. He groaned.

"Sleep!" the voice commanded.

And suddenly, Garad was free, all the imprisoning branches letting go at once and recoiling rapidly away from him. Garad collapsed onto his back on soft moss, carefully drawing air, and gingerly feeling for the cracked rib. The earth beneath him shook as if something massive thundered across it not far away and there was a cracking and thumping from further off amid the trees.

Then, as suddenly as it came, it disappeared. All was silent, utterly silent. No more rustling of leaves, no more creaking of branches. Complete stillness.

Faramir went to his knees at Garad's side. "Are you all right?" he asked, his hands going to Garad's chest, gently probing for broken ribs.

Garad could have wept for relief. His Captain had returned, this was the old Faramir again. "Welcome back!" he said with a half sobbing laugh.

"What?" Faramir said irritably, not understanding. "Are you hurt?" he demanded.

"I'm fine," Garad said and proved it, or tried to, by pushing himself to his feet. But a half-stifled groan at a stab of pain in his chest gave him away.

"Ribs?" Faramir said, a sympathetic frown pulling at his brows.

"Nothing. Maybe a crack or two."

"Your arm?" Faramir carefully grasped Garad's left forearm, his healer's fingers probing.

"Ow!" Garad protested and pulled free. "It's only bruised."

"Cracked ulna," Faramir diagnosed. "You won't be fighting with that arm anytime soon."

"No." Suddenly, Garad was impossibly weary. He sank down to sit on a mossy embankment. "Faramir, we need to sleep."

"And that arm needs bandaging," Faramir nodded. "Sleep a while. I'll keep watch."

Garad's body would not be denied, forcing him to close his eyes and lower himself to his side. He didn't have the strength to bother pulling off his cloak to place it between himself and the damp ground. He felt Faramir gently cut open Garad's sleeve and begin bandaging Garad's injured arm. Just before sleep claimed him completely, he felt Faramir roll him onto his side, and the damp moss gave way to dryness and warmth. Faramir's cloak.

Garad smiled and let soft darkness take him. Faramir would be all right, he would grieve, he would never stop grieving. But he would always return to his men.

Just as Boromir would have.


	10. Chapter 10  Courage and Hope

Chapter Ten – Loss and Hope

A/N – Just again want to say a huge thank you to the reviewers. This chapter was especially difficult to write! Thanks to those who say they see the caring and the trust, that it's worth celebrating. That's exactly why I write, I see that in these people and I know we all do. It's nice to share that feeling especially in our sometimes dark world. – Carolyn-Majorbee

"Garad!"

He came awake instantly though Faramir's warning had been a whisper.

The gray half light and stillness of beginning dawn surrounded and filled the glade. Garad had expected to wake chilled and sore. Instead, he found himself surprisingly well rested and the air around him was warm and sweet, as if spring had come early here.

Crouched close at his side, a darker shadow against the gray, Faramir inclined his head to the right. Looking in the indicated direction, Garad started. The light he had taken as that of early dawn was coming not from overhead, but from something, a figure, silent and still some distance ahead among the trees. It was a ghostly outline, a woman's figure.

Finduilas.

"Come on," Faramir whispered and his warm hand closed about Garad's uninjured arm, gently hauling him to his feet. "Hear it?" he asked, still barely lifting his voice above a whisper.

Garad, stepping over leaf litter with all the stealth for which Rangers were renowned, craned to hear the least sound. And caught it, ever so faint. Trickling water, a stream somewhere not far ahead, gurgling over stones.

The shimmering light that could only be Finduilas - or so Garad fervently hoped – led them still further, twisting and threading their way ever deeper into the forest. The silvery illumination shed in her wake fell like a gentle rain. Then, with crushing sadness, it came to Garad that Finduilas wept and the falling light was her tears.

The sound of running water grew louder in union with the cresting dawn. Gradually, it became much more difficult to pick out Finduilas' form amid the soft dawn that seeped slowly through the dense leafy canopy. Unlike every dawn Garad had ever known, there was not the least sound, no bird sang, no breeze stirred. There was only the stream, somewhere ahead, and ever thinner, a trail of ghostly tears shimmering like mithril on the emerald green of the mossy forest floor.

As their path grew clearer, Garad realized something else – the trees were giving way before them, making a space broad enough that Garad and Faramir could walk side by side. Like a crowd of mourners gathered along the way of a funeral procession, drawing back then gathering behind again as whatever they had awaited passed before them, the trees paid homage. Just ahead of them, flanking rows of stately giants lifted their limbs skyward in salute, letting in more light on Faramir's silent steady approach in solemn honoring of his grief.

Then, a glimmering pearly white was glimpsed from among the rocks that stood at the head of the forest corridor. The stream. Even it wept, its rushing hush a song of mourning.

The trees lifted their branches still higher and a beam of golden light speared downward. Finding what it sought, it shattered in a dazzling sunburst reflected from something in the water, spilling warm sunlight and life through the glade.

Finduilas' almost translucent form hovered a moment at the edge of the stream, then vanished.

The sunburst that had blinded Garad narrowed to a glowing star shining in the water. No, shining from beneath the water, reflected from something... something metallic.

Faramir uttered a grunting breathless cry as if struck hard in the gut.

A sword hilt. Boromir's sword. Trapped, awaiting them, held fast by a tumble of small boulders that partly dammed the stream and created a deep pool.

Garad, placing a stalling hand on Faramir's arm, made to go to it. Then he froze, halted, as he caught sight of something else drifting on that silver and gold rippling surface.

Boromir.

Face downward, the body drifted gently on the whispering flow of water. Red-gold hair fanned outward from the head, gleaming with a cruel impression of life and health. The right arm, that so strong right arm, trailed limp and lifeless, the hand palm upward, the fingers white and loosely curled. Clothed in crimson tunic and silver-gray chain mail, the broad shoulders lifted and fell, carried on each surging wave entering the pool.

Garad heard a terrible, half-strangled sound of distress, and realized it was his own attempt at words.

"No!" he said on the second try, holding Faramir back. "I'll get him."

Taking advantage of Faramir's grieving paralysis, Garad plunged into the waist deep chill water. If he got there first, he could cover Boromir before Faramir would see the terrible bloating corruption the water and the long days of death would have wrought upon his brother's face.

Blinded by tears, Garad stumbled as he reached the body and missed his grip. His hands grabbed at Boromir's mail shirt and the body rolled over, face upward. Garad reached up to take off his own tunic to cover Boromir. Then, he froze, staring at the impossible. Boromir lay atop the waters as if atop his bed. His face was composed as if in peaceful sleep. The eyes did not stare blankly up at him, breaking his heart with their lack of light and life, but rather were closed, calm and serene.

But sleeping men did not recline face down in water.

For all its magical protection, this was still death.

Boromir would never speak again, nor laugh, nor call for ale for his men.

Biting down against the urge to weep, Garad gently reached to take hold of the left arm. Faramir, arriving at his side, took the right. Grim and silent, Faramir bent to haul the arm up over his shoulders, uncaring of the drenching with chill river water. Garad quickly slid an arm under Boromir's knees, taking some of the weight as, bearing the burden together, he and Faramir waded ashore.

There, Faramir crumpled to sit back on his heels. He drew Boromir's upper body hard against himself and held him tight. He made no sound, but lay his cheek against his brother's wet hair and sat as if never to move again.

Garad felt the vice of overbearing grief close his chest then break in a gasping choked sob. He sat watching the brothers, the sight swimming and blurring beneath the force of his silent weeping. Gradually, Garad lowered his head to his chest, not wanting to see, nor wanting to intrude on the dreadful, intimate agony etching itself deep into Faramir's features. His Captain kept vigil, Boromir's head held tightly, protectively to his heart.

If Faramir wanted to sit here unmoving for all eternity, Garad would not leave him. But he could feel the tension building in the very air about the living and the dead. Faramir was searching, hunting, hoping to find and guide Boromir's spirit into and through the body, then onward to The Halls of Mandos.

_Drink an ale or two there for me with the lads, Boromir,_ Garad urged. Boromir would not be without company, at least. _I hope Mandos has a good supply. He's going to need it!_

The day grew older amid a silence as unchanging as it was profound. Only the sunlight and the water moved, entwined as twin markers of the time that had passed since last Boromir had drawn breath.

"He is near, yet too far," Faramir said, making Garad start as if the dead had spoken. Faramir lifted his head a fraction away from his dead brother, but no more. "He will not come. Duty holds him."

Garad did not know what to say. Did this mean Boromir was doomed never to return to Mandos and never to return on the wheel of life? Would he then become a wraith?

"He says he will return when it suits him, and not before," Faramir said, and something like a smile twitched at his stony face.

Unable to think of anything else to say, Garad ventured, "Sounds like Boromir, all right!"

Faramir nodded, and lowering his head again, said no more but returned to his calling.

Then again, Faramir might not have the will to move, regardless of any supposed search for Boromir's spirit. Surely Finduilas, who had been here but a short while ago, would be better equipped to lead her elder son to wherever she herself now resided? Faramir was in no state to think clearly.

_"If it happens that way," _Boromir's words suddenly came to Garad from the memory of the many years past since they were both eighteen. _"No, damn it, listen to me! If it happens that way and I die first, I want you to promise me you'll make him go on. Swear to me, Garad, swear you won't let him get himself killed or fade. Gondor will need him."_

Gondor will need him. Gondor would go on for him where it could not have recovered from Boromir's loss otherwise. Not with sufficient strength to keep Sauron at bay. That made Garad at last draw a weary breath. Keep Sauron at bay?

_Boromir, my friend, you needn't have worried. You almost made the distance to die at Faramir's side. Almost. We can't hold, alone, against Sauron too much longer. We'll all be dead soon enough. You knew it before you left for Imladris. But, I will keep my oath._

Feeling sure he had aged a hundred years since they had found Boromir's body, Garad at last prised himself upward. He stood a moment, suddenly aware he had forgotten something. Sunlight danced across his eyes, dazzling him. Boromir's sword! It still lay waiting in the water. Garad turned and climbed back down the low grassy bank and splashed toward it. He reached out, then paused, humbled by all that sword and the arm that had wielded it represented, had accomplished since Boromir had first taken it up as a boy. Bowing his head in acknowledgment a moment, Garad reverently took hold of the hilt and lifted it from the water.

Silently, he returned with it to Faramir's side. Faramir remained as unmoving as any statue, his expression hidden against his brother's hair. That hair was dryer now, Garad realized absurdly, as if part of him expected Boromir to look up at him with loud complaint for the dousing. Boromir's clothing, unlike his body, was in ruins. Tattered and torn by more than the river's relatively gentle passage. The marks of battle were plain to see for any experienced soldier. The chain mail was ruptured about the chest, its rings broken by what could only have been a fatal blow. Old blood was still plainly visible, thick and wide about the tunic collar and chest. No amount of river water could completely remove so deep and telling a stain.

Plainly, Boromir's ribs and the organs beneath had been crushed, and he had bled to death.

Silently vowing vengeance, Garad knelt and gently returned the sword to its master, pressing the hilt into Boromir's limp hand and taking his own left, folded the dead fingers about its grip.

Then, Garad drew a deep, heavy breath, bracing himself to carry out his oath-bound duty.

"Faramir," he said gently, "Come, time to take him home."

Slowly, Faramir lifted his head and looked up at his friend. His eyes were dry, but his face stark white and lined, oh so lined, as it had never been before, by a pain beyond enduring.

"I know," he said.

Garad had to swallow hard before he could get past the lump in his throat. Hesitantly, gently, he reached out and lay his hand to Faramir's shoulder. It was an honor far beyond his earning, to ask that he might in some small way share Faramir's pain, lighten his burden.

"When you're ready, we'll need a travois." Letting go, he turned away, to find wood somehow, without touching the trees.

"Garad?" Faramir said at his back.

Garad looked back at him.

"Thank you."

Tears again filmed Garad's eyes. He nodded and turned again to his work.

The day was growing late, and long shadows stood everywhere about him, but the trees no longer seemed in anyway menacing. Garad didn't understand why it should be so, but was simply grateful, for it seemed they must spend the night here. They could not hope to move Boromir's body over such rough terrain in darkness.

Garad found there were fallen branches aplenty where he would have sworn there had been none this morning. Conveniently, most were the precise size needed to make the three -sided litter. Stooping to collect them, he became gradually aware that the light was growing rather than diminishing. Growing rapidly brighter, in fact.

A human form was again taking shape.

"Finduilas?" Garad asked of Faramir, but the other Man only frowned and shook his head.

"No!" Garad exclaimed as a long white beard and piercing dark eyes became visible. He drew his sword and shouted warning, "Saruman!"

Even as he braced himself, Garad wondered what the hell he thought he was doing setting to tackle The White Wizard with nothing more than a blade,

The face took on more clearly defined features, and Garad dared breathe again.

"Gandalf!" he exclaimed, then sensing something was very different not least that the Wizard wore dazzlingly clean white robes, Garad flicked a glance to Faramir and asked, "Right?"

Faramir nodded.

"Is that any welcome?" Gandalf asked, his bushy eyebrows lowering, to frown at Garad's drawn weapon.


	11. Chapter 11 Returning

Garad hastily put away his sword. "I thought you were Saruman," he grumbled.

"If I were Saruman you would be dead," Gandalf told him dryly. "But you are partly right, for I am The White Wizard now."

Feeling he had been the butt of a bad joke, Garad said tersely, "Congratulations."

Gandalf inclined his head."I am sorry to have startled you both. Didn't I tell you about... oh, no, that's right. You cannot have known. Probably as well, all things considered."

Not bothering to try and decipher that, Garad asked hopefully. "Does this mean Saruman is dead?"

"Alas, no," Gandalf replied, and a sharp edge entered his tone, "But I have plans for him."

"I like the sound of that!" Garad decided. Then, following Gandalf's gaze to Faramir and Boromir, sadness returned. "You're here to help us take Boromir back to Minas Tirith?"

"Oh, he can't go there yet," Gandalf said absently, he and Faramir trading expressions that Garad read to mean a lot more was going on in silent and spooky mode.

"You were with him when he died?" Faramir asked. Gandalf nodded. "How badly did he...? How did it happen?"

"Cave troll."

Damn, Garad thought. Boromir had always hated those things with a vengeance. Had he somehow known?

"Can you help me with him now?" Faramir asked. "He's being... difficult."

Gandalf's lips twitched. "I cannot say I am surprised."

"No." Faramir sighed, and the pain that echoed in the breath was telling. "Always, he puts duty to others before himself."

Gandalf nodded, then in a gesture that broke Garad's heart anew, the Wizard stooped and stroked Boromir's hair.

"None knows that better than I," Gandalf said softly. "Yes, I have come to help. I will call him in such a manner that he cannot refuse. But he might not be happy about it and you will have to curb him, I have no time for his temper."

"His temper?" Faramir snapped, his face twisting with a ferocity that startled Garad. "Look at him! You will _not _bring him back to awareness for even a moment, do you hear me? Focus, damn it, and let him pass on without, without..." Fararmir's voice broke and he looked away.

"I am sorry, My Boy. He has suffered many times more than his due for his aid to me. I promise you he will not suffer now."

"Thank you," Faramir said.

Gandalf stood, apparently waiting for something. Garad shifted nervously, feeling utterly useless. He just wanted it over, wanted them to get Boromir home and begin healing their grief by killing Orcs.

Faramir glanced up at the Wizard questioningly. "Is something wrong?"

Gandalf cleared his throat. "You will need to stand clear of him. There is much power involved and I would not have you hurt."

"Oh, yes."

With slow and gentle tenderness, Faramir began easing his brother's body to the mossy earth.

"Here," Garad said, spreading his cloak over the damp moss. "I know he can't feel it, but still..."

Faramir nodded and squeezed Garad's arm firmly in a show of gratitude.

"I'm sorry! I forgot," Faramir said as he realized he had grasped Garad's injured arm. He pulled his hand away quickly.

"Huh," Garad said, looking down at the bandaged forearm. The linen was soaked in river water. "It's all right. It doesn't hurt anymore."

"That bone is cracked, Garad," Faramir said distractedly, concentrating on settling his dead brother atop the cloak. "Be careful not to overtax it."

Feeling no pain, Garad flexed his fingers. Still not the barest twinge in an arm that had throbbed and burned angrily not so long ago. Nor did his ribs hurt. He didn't understand it, but didn't have time or interest to figure it out. He stooped to help Faramir roll Boromir's heavy, lifeless body onto the double layer of cloaks.

Gently, Garad picked up the heavy right arm and lay it atop Boromir's chest, then reverently placed the sword back in his dead fingers. The Man could no longer feel the pain of its weight against his shattered chest. Faramir lay the left hand atop the right, both resting on the sword hilt. Then Faramir sat and, using his fingers, carefully and neatly combed Boromir's hair back from the broad, scarred brow.

Garad straightened and as he did so, the soaked bandaging unraveled from about his forearm. He saw with mounting puzzlement that where there had been livid bruising, the flesh was no longer swollen or discolored in the slightest. Even the deep scratches from the branches that had torn at him were gone. Once, he might have remarked on it. Now, watching as Faramir bent and placed a farewell kiss to his brother's brow, Garad's throat closed with sorrow. His thoughts went to the last time he had seen Boromir, during the impromptu victory celebration at Osgiliath, laughing over an ale and full of vitality and hope. Until Denethor had arrived.

Faramir drew back and, with everything as ready as it could be, took a few paces away from the body, closer to where Gandalf awaited. Garad drew his sword and came to attention in silent salute as he'd done so many times before over the graves of fallen comrades. He would stay that way until Gandalf assured them Boromir was finally at peace.

"Well done," Gandalf said softly. "You have found the body, now I will return the soul."

The Wizard closed his eyes and for long moments nothing happened, or at least as far as Garad could tell. Then, he felt it, a stirring, a building thrum of power that reverberated through his boots and climbed into every bone. The sensation grew more and more intense, tugging at Garad as if he was standing at the edge of a spinning vortex of air. But, not a leaf stirred in the forest behind him, nor a ripple of wind blew over the stream.

"Boromir!" Gandalf called, then repeated more urgently, _"Boromir!_ I command you return!"

"Come home to us, Brother, I beg you," Faramir pleaded softly.

Silence. The power hummed lower, lower, faded altogether. Garad dared look down at Boromir's body, found it unchanged, then wondered what precisely he had expected to see. Surely there would be no outward sign of success. Gandalf had given his word that Boromir would know not so much as a moment of awareness of dying, of passing through his broken body.

Fararmir gasped and drew in a long lungful of air. His limbs trembled and he sat down abruptly, his head bowed.

Gandalf remained unmoving, but his eyes were open again.

"Did it work?" Garad asked when he couldn't stand the suspense for another moment.

Gandalf nodded.

"Oh," Garad said, and lowered his sword, trying to read from Faramir's face what he'd experienced, if anything, of his brother's passing. All he found in Faramir's expression was utter exhaustion and abiding grief.

Then, there was a sound, a low grunt followed by a gulping inhalation and a garbled choking. Boromir's body jolted, a spasm rippling through the mighty frame. His face no longer serene, twisted with effort and pain. The eyelids flickered and he gave a low groan.

"He's waking!" Garad said, torn by panic that Faramir's worst fear was about to be realized and that his brother would go through a painful death a second time. Beneath the panic fluttered an insane hope that somehow Boromir might live long enough that they could at least say good bye.

"Gandalf!" Faramir snarled, going to his brother even as he turned to glare at the Wizard. "You swore it would not be like this!"

"I have kept my promise," Gandalf said, unperturbed. "You will find he is more angry than -"

"Angry!" someone complained hoarsely, and broke to a fit of coughing.

"Boromir?" Faramir asked, his voice small and disbelieving as a child waking from a nightmare to find his world secure after all.

Staring, appalled, Garad saw it _was _Boromir who was coughing, spitting up water. The dead right hand flexed, the fingers releasing the sword hilt and the arm moving a little. Boromir pressed his hand to his ribs.

"Boromir?" Faramir said again, less disbelieving and no longer angry.

Garad's knees threatened to buckle beneath him. Whatever strange spells were wrought in Fangorn, they had him well and truly ensnared now, were making him see things he fervently wished to come to pass. It was all illusion. Cruel illusion. It had to be...

Boromir had found it an easy task to follow after the Uruks. Easy, but immensely frustrating. He could see Merry and Pippin plainly, each tied to the back of an enemy. Merry remained unconscious, bleeding steadily from a gash across his brow.

Pippin was awake and furious with fear for his cousin.

"Stop! You fools! Stop! Listen to me! You need him alive!" Pippin begged, over and over. His small feet kicked hard against the Uruk's leather encased back. Boromir knew the blows were hurting Pippin's bare feet far more than harming the Uruk who barely noticed.

Boromir wanted to use power to unleash the wind to howl down upon the enemy, drive them to their knees, then scatter them like chaff. But, he couldn't do that without harming the prisoners too, and Merry couldn't walk let alone run. Boromir hadn't had time to truly learn to discipline his new skills, nor was he certain of how much power he had available to him after over-extending himself during the battle of Amon Hen. Pippin should have been able to hear him, but the Hobbit's fear for his cousin blocked Boromir's efforts at contacting him. Boromir dared not break his link with the Little Ones to go check on Aragorn's progress. He would enter the chase as soon as could be.

Finally, Pippin gave up begging and shouting and kicking. Exhausted, he leaned his head against the Uruk's back and closed his eyes. Boromir wondered if Pippin might succumb to sleep where Boromir could finally reach him clearly.

But, suddenly, the Uruk leader called a halt. The huge creature stood sniffing the air like a dog. Apparently satisfied they were not being followed, it shouted, "Take a breather! There's a long way to go yet!"

All about him Uruks and Orcs folded to sit on the damp ground. Night was falling and they feared the Rohirrim.

"We need more than a breather!" the Orc captain came forward to complain. "We need food! Fresh meat!"

"No time for huntin'!" the Uruk spat.

"Don't need to hunt when we got fresh meat right here!" the creature whined and poked a finger into Pippin's side.

"They are not for eating!" the leader roared.

"Just a little?" the Orc said eagerly. "You lot have a long way to carry 'em. How about we lighten the load fer ya? They don't need their legs."

"They are not to be spoiled!" the leader bellowed.

"We aint' going another step til we've been fed," the Orc insisted.

Appalled, Boromir had heard enough. He'd seen bodies mutilated by Orcs. Even if Pippin and Merry were broken and bruised as a result, Boromir must stop this now. He would call, then unleash a blast of wind. If only he could explain to Pippin to be ready.

_"Pippin!"_ he said, trying reaching his friend one more time.

"Boromir?" came a faint but joyously relieved reply. "Are you here?"

"Shut it, Little Rat!" Pippin's Uruk captor threatened.

"Boromir!"

Disappointingly, it was not Pippin this time but rather, the clearer, more commanding call came from Faramir. Boromir's brother had been nagging at him since just after Amon Hen, where Boromir would not have been able to hear him. Since then, Faramir hadn't let him be for a moment without begging him to abandon his ghostly existence.

Following Merry and Pippin's capture, and Aragorn's wounding, Faramir's pleading had reached Boromir with impossibly bad timing. But, even disregarding that, Boromir wasn't sure he would have responded, other than as he had, with "I'm busy". It was just too painful, thinking of Faramir, thinking he'd never see him again, never share an ale, or a battle tactics planning session.

_ "Boromir! You must listen."_

_ "Not now, Little Brother,"_ Boromir repeated irritably, trying to remain focused on what was happening with his captured friends.

Part of him knew, as usual, Faramir was right. Boromir could not remain in this state forever without risking losing himself for all time. But, damn it, he couldn't leave now!

_"Boromir!"_

This time it was not Faramir.

_Gandalf!_

_"I command you, return!"_

At first surprised, Boromir realized Gandalf, unlike Faramir, could not be calling to him from the physical plane, but rather direct from... Wherever it was Wizards went when they died. Boromir had no idea what an existence would be like in the Halls of Mandos, and didn't particularly care. He was needed, urgently needed, right here and could, he hoped save lives and maybe, as Galadriel had said, maybe, still contribute to winning the war.

"Can't run no more!" an Orc complained, bringing Boromir's attention instantly back to the moment. "Not 'til we eat!"

"They are not for eating." The leader repeated and uncurled the whip it carried at a rough belt about its waist.

Boromir snapped an answer to Gandalf.

_"I'm needed here! Tell Mandos he must wait!"_

_"Return!"_

Again, Boromir ignored the command and began gathering himself to smash the Uruks.

Or tried to.

It was as if a giant's hand closed about his arm, or the equivalent, and heaved.

Without his volition, Boromir was yanked hard, up and away above the twilight plains of Rohan. Desperately, he strained to remain fixed on the rapidly shrinking view of the group of enemy and the captives who were like sons to Boromir.

Then, he was drawn away from Rohan completely, sucked into a spinning vortex of white light. Furious, he struggled, but without any effect whatever. Gandalf's irresistible command pulled at him, unraveling thread after thread of his etheric essence as he continued to try to resist.

_"Not now!"_ Boromir begged. _"They need me!"_


	12. Chapter 12  Reunion

Chapter Twelve….. Reunion

Suddenly, the white vortex vanished. Darkness and crushing weight surrounded him and he heard a grunting, gurgling sound, like garbled choked-off words.

"Gandalf!" Boromir tried to snarl, utterly furious.

Then, shocked, he understood he was hearing his own attempts at speech. The weight, no longer crushing, was simply the unaccustomed weight of his own body.

Pain slammed through him, not the agony he had known moments before death, but still more than unpleasant. Damn it! There was no point in this whatever and no one had told him his return to Mandos would involve traveling back and through his dead, and by now, surely rotting, body!

"Gandalf!" Boromir heard Faramir snarl, more angry than Boromir could ever recall him being, all but spitting in his fury. "You swore it would not be like this!"

"I have kept my promise," Gandalf said, unperturbed. "You will find he is more angry than -"

"Angry?" Boromir managed to cough. Angry didn't even come close to describing how he felt.

"Boromir?" Faramir asked, his voice small and disbelieving and dousing Boromir's fury like red hot iron plunged into a smithy's quenching trough.

"Fara...?" Boromir tried to respond, but broke to another, worse, fit of coughing. His brother's voice carried so much memory, sounding again like the small, frightened boy he had been, alone in the middle of the night, alone and hoping their mother would still come to him.

With what seemed ludicrous effort, Boromir managed to get his eyelids to lift. At first all he saw was a hazy blur. Then, a face came into view. Someone bent over him and gentle but firm hands lifted him, then hugged him hard. Faramir, clutching him tight, his chest shaking with strain, then rising in a great inhalation. Faramir sobbed, just the once, then stopped, struggling no doubt not to break down completely.

This was just plain cruel, Boromir knew, his fury returning in a rush. Not only had Gandalf taken him away from saving Merry and Pippin from crippling torture and probable death, he had caused Faramir needless grief. Boromir wanted to say that, but his stiff lungs, throat and tongue were understandably not ready to oblige. And that only made Boromir all the more furious. In the bare moments before the body to which he had returned had left to sustain him, Boromir would at least have the satisfaction of giving Gandalf a piece of his mind. And more importantly, direct him to Merry and Pippin's aid.

Boromir concentrated on overcoming the urge to cough. He drew a long, steadying breath, aware suddenly that he didn't hurt near as much as he should, and that he felt warm, was bathed in sunlight and lying prone atop a soft, cushioning surface. Greenery haloed Faramir's face as it swam in and out of view, and Boromir understood that somehow, Faramir had carried the body out of Moria. Or had Galadriel had a hand in that? Were they in Lothlorien? Mixed with fury and fear for his small friends, Boromir was overwhelmingly confused.

At Faramir's side, tall and clothed in dazzling white, stood Gandalf.

"Welcome back," the Wizard said and, unbelievably immune to Boromir's fury, he smiled.

"Damn it!" Boromir snarled, obscurely pleased the words had come out loud and clear. "Why don't you ever listen!" He coughed again and his right hand flexed, the fingers opening about what could only be a sword hilt. He lifted what seemed a very heavy arm and pressed his hand to his ribs to stop the spasms.

"Send me back!" he ordered. "They need me!"

"My dear boy," Gandalf replied, his smile infuriatingly only broadening, "I cannot. You are alive again, you see. We both are."

"Merry and Pippin are about to become an Orc's lunch!" Boromir roared and, fury lending him strength, pushed himself to sit straighter, albeit leaning heavily on his brother. "Send me back!"

"Damn you!" Faramir growled and let go his grip suddenly, getting to his feet and stomping away.

Boromir toppled backward, his head hitting the ground, the jolt hurting his bruised chest and shoulders.

"Faramir?" Boromir said. "What the hell?"

With some effort, he struggled up, rubbing at his chest. Blinking and squinting, he looked toward his brother. Behind Faramir stood Garad, his mouth open and his jaw comically low as he watched proceedings with patent disbelief. Ignoring him, Boromir returned his attention to Faramir who had begun to laugh, more than a little hysterically. Then, the laughs became sobs, broken weeping.

"Damn you, Gandalf!" Boromir snarled, looking back at the Wizard. "What have you done! You bring me back just so my brother can watch me die!

"He does not weep for grief, Boromir," Gandalf replied evenly, "He weeps for relief that you live, strong and healed."

Finished with his rebuke, at least until after he had spoken to Faramir, Boromir tried to stand to go to his brother. Then, he caught what Gandalf had said.

"What did you say?" he blinked, turning back to the Wizard.

"I said, you will live. But I am in a hurry. I told Faramir I'd have no time for your temper."

"My temper!" Boromir snarled. "Merry and Pippin are dying! Can't you understand that! They need me!"

"Someone always does," Gandalf said, his face creasing not with amusement but rather with a gentle, pained sympathy. "I must go. There is an army here needs rallying. Do not fear for Merry and Pippin, Boromir, I would not have called you back had I not left them in the care of the Valar."

"The Valar! So they _are _dead?"

Gandalf, whose presence wavered now as if covered with water, halted. His brows drew down in familiar exasperation, and he said, "They are not dead. They have escaped and are on their way here. Do you want me to go lead them to you or should I stay here and hold your hand?"

Boromir just stared. Then, his eyes stung with tears of relief. "You're sure?"

"I'm sure. You will see."

And with that, he vanished.

"Need a hand there, Sunshine?" Garad said, his voice strained with the effort at bravado.

"Could do," Boromir said, looking up at his friend and reaching to take the proffered help.

Suddenly, unbelievably, Boromir was grinning, joy flooding into him. After all his yelling at Gandalf it was apparent that somehow, perhaps with the aid of those same Valar, his wounds had healed as if they had never been.

Garad hauled him easily to his feet, the sword sliding from atop him to lie on the Ranger-green cloaks that had been spread beneath him. Boromir's knees wobbled and probably would not have held but for his friend taking most of his weight. Boromir managed a step closer to Faramir.

"I'm sorry," Boromir said, contrite as he looked down at a terribly shaken Faramir. His brother held his face in his hands, his shoulders and chest heaving with silent sobs.

"I asked him to send me back only because I thought... " He sighed. "There were extenuating circumstances."

Faramir's shoulders shook harder and Boromir realized his brother wasn't weeping now, he was laughing. But there was still a worrisome note of hysteria. With Garad's welcome help, Boromir managed to lower himself, rather than fall, to his knees at his brother's side. He reached out with both hands, grabbed Faramir's shoulders and pulled him hard against himself, wrapping his arms about him.

"I'm sorry," he said again, apologizing for dying, trying to imagine how he would have felt if he had been sent to find Faramir's dead body. After a moment, Faramir's arms lifted and took Boromir about the back, returning the hug.

Then, something else occurred to Boromir and, annoyed anew, he growled, "Damn it, why couldn't he just have brought you here _after_ I was alive again?"

Faramir lifted his head from Boromir's shoulder and pulled away from the hug to regard him seriously. Yet there was a twinkle of something in those blue eyes, that warned Boromir to beware.

His Little Brother was about to get even.

"I was told I had to find your body first, Brother," Faramir said, astonishingly calm.

"Gandalf told you where to find me?" Boromir guessed, and turned his head to regard the forest glade. He felt his brow furrow in puzzlement as he took a better look. "This doesn't look like Lothlorien," he said.

"It isn't," Garad put in.

Boromir lurched to his feet again and grabbed at Garad's arm, intending to shake it in celebration, but needing it as much to keep his balance.

"I'm back!" he declared delightedly, "I don't know how he did it, and I don't care! I'm back! Where's the ale?"

Garad's broad grin faded to mock disappointment. "Wizards. Typical. Always forgetting the important stuff."

Laughing, Boromir hauled his friend into a hug. When he drew back, he found Faramir on his feet, holding Boromir's sword out to him.

Boromir nodded thanks and slid it easily into the water-logged scabbard still belted about his hips. Studying his clothing, Boromir could see plain signs of not only the battle with the troll, but also hard wear since.

"You found me here?" he asked, indicating the glade.

Garad's grin faded. "In the stream," he replied, his tone grim with the memory.

"We're beneath the Dimrill Dale?" Boromir asked.

"You could say that," Faramir said, that twinkle growing to a sharp gleam.

"All right, all right. Where are we?"

"Fangorn Forest."

"What?" Boromir yelped.

Garad laughed. "Don't worry, the trees don't bite too hard when you get to know them."

"Fangorn!" Boromir repeated in amazement. "How did I get here?"

"No idea," Garad said.

"The stream," Faramir replied. "Apparently, you fell into a lake beneath Moria that feeds the Entwash."

"Oh." To Boromir's mind came an image of fire, of falling, endlessly falling ...

"Steady there, Sunshine!" Garad warned and grabbed at him, along with Faramir, as he swayed.

Spotting an outcropping of moss-covered stones and fallen wood, Boromir lowered himself to sit down.

"I remember," he said slowly. "I tried to grab him, and we both fell."

"Someone else was killed?" Faramir demanded, at the same time busy with hunting for something strapped to his belt. A water flask.

Boromir nodded and took the flask gratefully, swallowing a long incredibly refreshing draught before answering, "Gandalf."

"Gandalf!" Faramir spluttered. "But he was just here, you saw him."

"I saw his ghost, or spirit, or whatever it was," Boromir said, looking gravely up at his brother. "I'm sorry, Faramir. He's dead."

Faramir sat down at his side. He heaved a weary sigh.

"Doesn't seem to have slowed him down too much," Garad said after a moment. Unable to find any more space on the rock outcropping to seat himself, he simply lowered himself to sit cross-legged on the cloaks laid on the mossy ground before them.

For long moments, the three of them sat, soaking in the moment of miraculous reunion.

"If this is Fangorn..." Boromir said slowly as something else occurred to him. "What are you doing here?"

"As I said," Faramir told him. "We were sent to look for your body."

"You knew then? When it happened, I mean," Boromir asked seriously.

Faramir nodded and had to look away from Boromir's face.

"But, we never would have found you if she hadn't told us where to turn away from the river," Garad explained.

"She?" Boromir asked. "Galadriel?"


	13. Chapter 13  The ale arrives!

Chapter 13 - Finding the ale

"She?" Boromir asked. "Galadriel?"

Faramir's head lifted in sharp surprise."Galadriel?" he echoed. "You don't mean... you couldn't mean...?"

Boromir frowned, realizing suddenly that he had yet to tell Faramir anything of his time in Lothlorien, or what had happened since. How the hell was he to explain about Aragorn? But then again, Faramir had always been the one who believed that they'd see Gondor's King return in their lifetimes. Of course, the last time he'd said anything about it he'd been only about ten years old or so...

"Boromir?" Faramir prompted.

"Huh?" Boromir turned back to him. "Oh. Yes, that Galadriel." He picked up the thread, ready for as much teasing as possible before getting down to the serious matter of how to figure out Minas Tirith and Denethor and Aragorn.

Garad stared, trading a look of utter disbelief with Faramir. "The Lady Galadriel, The Witch of Lothlorien?"

Boromir snorted. "She takes exception to that term."

"You were in Laurelindorinian?" Faramir demanded. "But, you couldn't have been, not unless you doubled back to Moria, which makes no sense."

"More sense than trying to cross Caradhras in the depths of winter," Boromir said with sour remembrance. "I went to Lothlorien after I was dead," he explained, again relishing the amount of teasing he could get in as he filled them in. "At first, my soul shared space inside, Arag- inside, another Ranger. A Man of Arnor."

"Boromir..." Faramir began, and there was nothing but deep concern in his blue eyes. A Healer's concern. "You were dead several days. You can't be remembering it right."

"Maybe that cave troll rattled your brains beyond saving," Garad said cheerfully and extended a hunk of bread to Boromir. "Not to worry, not much to save in the first place!"

"Thanks," Boromir said dryly. Then, suddenly aware that he was ravenously hungry, he took a bite. "Good bread," he said over a mouthful.

Garad shook his head. "It's three days old, at least. But I suppose anything tastes good after you've been dead."

"Do you have to keep reminding me?" Boromir complained and kicked him lightly on the shin.

"As it happens," Garad said, returning a smack for the kick. "Yes. Nasty scare you gave us there, Oh My Captain General!"

"I suppose so," Boromir agreed.

Apparently having decided he'd rather know less than more, Faramir had fallen silent. Boromir turned to look at him and found such an expression of joy and such a tender, sappy smile on his brother's face that his first reaction was to tease. But then he found himself returning the smile in equal measure.

The three of them sat in silence again for a time, eating bread and apples that tasted better than the finest fare Boromir had ever known. The sun was warm, the stream gurgled pleasantly over the stones, and the Forest of Fangorn failed miserably to live up to all expectations of ghoulish horror. Which reminded Boromir...

"Gandalf led you here?"

Faramir exchanged a look with Garad who only shook his head.

"No," Faramir said evenly. "Mother showed us the way."

Boromir choked on a piece of apple. Garad jumped up to aid Faramir in slapping him on the back. Boromir waved them off, his eyes running as he gasped, "Mother!"

"Mother," Faramir confirmed, eying him worriedly for the choking fit.

Boromir had to admit his ribs were still a little sore. Which was something, considering the state they had been in previously. He eyed his brother levelly a long moment, trying to figure if Faramir was just getting even for Boromir's dead then not dead routine. But, as their gazes locked, Boromir found more wistful sadness than teasing in his brothers' eyes. So it was true.

"She and Gandalf, hey," Boromir said, trying to lighten the mood. "Ghosts together. The Hereafter will never be the same."

"Ghosts!" A familiar gruff voice harumphed.

The glade filled with blinding whiteness, and Gandalf's shape began to reform before them. "Looks who's talking!" he said reprovingly.

Set to give as good as he got, Boromir's mouth opened then closed over a wordless cry, half pain, half joy. Gandalf had not returned empty-handed.

"Boromir?" Pippin asked.

"It's true!" Merry exclaimed. The gash on his brow had been tended, was already healing over.

"He is! He is!" Pippin pulled free of Gandalf's hold in a frenzy of excitement.

"What's true?" Garad asked as Faramir questioned at the same time, "These are the friends you feared for?"

"He's back!" Merry and Pippin finished as one. Then they charged at Boromir who went to his knees to accept their arms open embrace, their laughter tumbling with the ripple of the stream.

"I told you I would see them safe," Gandalf said, eying Boromir with reproof. "Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli are also on their way here. Most of The Fellowship will again be together."

"Gimli has something for you." Pippin announced, drawing back to look up at him.

"Something he couldn't give you back in Lothlorien," Merry finished, looking up at him with as pleased a smile as any Boromir had ever seen.

"Eomer gave it to him to give you as a get well gift," Pippin chattered on excitedly.

"Eomer!" Boromir wondered how he'd gotten tangled in all this.

"He and his Riders helped us escape," Merry said.

"Then Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli found us and Gandalf told us about you..." Merry added.

"And we wanted to throw a party, but you weren't here, so ..."

"So, Gandalf brought us to you," Merry said, the two Hobbits dizzying Boromir as they juggled their turns at speech.

"And Gimli said no celebration would be fitting without..."

"So Eomer gave him..."

"Beer for you!" Pippin exclaimed.

"It was supposed to be a surprise, Pippin!" Merry complained, giving his cousing an elbow in the ribs.

"Come here!" Boromir laughed, and took Merry and Pippin into his embrace once again.

His life was back, and his life was good.

- End , or is TBC? You tell me! -Carolyn

Sorry this is a short update, I think I posted too much yesterday! LOL Want to tell you exciting news, Eleanor Tremayne has agreed to allow the prequel to Rapid Peril to be posted here! She's been impressed by all the reviews on this story, so thanks are owed are kind reviewers! DITHEN will appear here soon – it is a fantastic read! Lots of great character moments for Boromir, Faramir and Garad, set 20 yrs prior to Rapid Peril and telling the story of a Ranger mission for young Captain Faramir that goes distastrously wrong. Faramir risks everything to be sure the enemy don't triumph. Both he and Boromir have premonitions… oh, you'll have to read it! I had the privilege of writing some of the scenes, mostly action-oriented for this story! It was a lot of fun to write! So keep an eye out, it'll be here in the next few days! Keep those reviews coming and I can talk more people into posting not to mention that I might feel inspired to continue Soul Full! Where do you think the characters would go from here? I'm inclined to send Faramir and Garad along with Aragorn and Boromir to Edoras and onward…. - Carolyn


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